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UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


in  memory  of 

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(Mrs.  Seymour  E.  Harris) 


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Honore  De  Balzac 

Introductions  by 

GEORGE    SAINTSBURY 


VOLUME     ONE 


HONORS  DE  BALZAC 

COUSIN   PONS 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CAT 
AND   RACKET 


NEW  YORK 
THE  REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  CO. 


....^^.^..^.^.^^^mMmE^:^ 


li. 


CONTENTS 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

COUSIN  PONS 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CAT  AND  RACKET 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

"  Sans  genie,  je  suis  flambe!  " 

Volumes/  almost  libraries,  have  been  written  about 
Balzac ;  and  perhaps  of  very  few  writers,  putting  aside 
the  three  or  four  greatest  of  all,  is  it  so  difficult  to 
select  one  or  a  few  short  phrases  which  will  in  any  way 
denote  them,  much  more  sum  them  up.  Yet  the  five  words 
quoted  above,  which  come  from  an  early  letter  to  his  sister 
when  as  yet  he  had  not  "  found  his  way,"  characterize  him,  I 
think,  better  than  at  least  some  of  the  volumes  I  have  read 
about  him,  and  supply,  when  they  are  properly  understood, 
the  most  valuable  of  all  keys  and  companions  for  his  com- 
prehension. 

"  If  I  have  not  genius,  it  is  all  up  Vv^ith  me ! "  A  very 
matter-of-fact  person  may  say :  "  Why !  there  is  nothing 
wonderful  in  this.  Everybody  knows  that  genius  is  wanted 
to  make  a  name  in  literature,  and  most  people  think  they 
have  it."  But  this  would  be  a  little  short-sighted,  and  only 
excusable  because  of  the  way  in  which  the  word  "  genius  "  is 
too  commonly  bandied  about.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is 
not  so  very  much  genius  in  the  world;  and  a  great  deal  of 
more  than  fair  performance  is  attainable  and  attained  by 
more  or  less  decent  allowances  or  exhibitions  of  talent.  In 
prose,  more  especially,  it  is  possible  to  gain  a  very  high 
place,  and  to  deserve  it,  without  any  genius  at  all: 
though  it  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  do  so  in  verse. 

^  This  general  introduction  attempts  to  deal  chiefly,  if  not  solely,  with 
Balzac's  life,  and  with  the  great  characteristics  of  his  work  and  genius. 
Particular  books  and  special  exemplifications  of  that  genius  will  be  only 
incidentally  referred  to  in  it;  more  detailed  criticism  as  well  as  a  sum- 
mary of  the  bibliographical  information,  which  is  often  so  interesting 
and  sometimes  so  important  in  Balzac's  case,  being  reserved  for  the 
prefaces  or  notes  to  the  various  novels  of  the  series.  I  have,  however, 
attempted,  while  making  these  short  prefaces  or  introductions  inde- 
pendently intelligible  and  sufficient,  to  link  them  to  each  other  and 
to  this  general  essay,  so  that  the  whole  may  present  a  sufficient  study 
of  Balzac  and  a  sufficient  commentary  on  his  work. 


2  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

But  what  Balzac  felt  (whether  he  was  conscious  in  detail  of 
the  feeling  or  not)  when  he  used  these  words  to  his  sister 
Laure,  what  his  critical  readers  must  feel  when  they  have 
read  only  a  very  little  of  his  work,  what  they  must  feel  still 
more  strongly  when  they  have  read  that  work  as  a  whole — 
is  that  for  him  there  was  no  such  door  of  escape  and  no  such 
compromise.  He  had  the  choice  by  his  nature,  his  aims,  his 
capacities,  of  being  a  genius  or  nothing.  He  had  no  little 
gifts,  and  he  was  even  destitute  of  some  of  the  separate  and 
divisible  great  ones.  In  mere  writing,  mere  style,  he  was 
not  supreme ;  one  seldom  or  never  derives  from  anything  of 
his  the  merely  artistic  satisfaction  given  by  perfect  prose. 
His  humor,  except  of  the  grim  and  gigantic  kind,  was  not 
remarkable ;  his  wit,  for  a  Frenchman,  curiously  thin  and 
small.  The  minor  felicities  of  the  literature  generally  were 
denied  to  him.  Sans  genie,  il  etait  flambe;  flambe  as  he 
seemed  to  be,  and  very  reasonably  seemed,  to  his  friends  when 
as  yet  the  genius  had  not  come  to  him,  and  when  he  was 
desperately  striving  to  discover  where  his  genius  lay  in 
those  wondrous  works  which  "  Lord  R'Hoone,"  and  "  Horace 
de  Saint  Aubin,"  and  others  obligingly  fathered  for 
him. 

It  must  be  the  business  of  these  introductions  to  give  what 
assistance  they  may  to  discover  where  it  did  lie ;  it  is  only 
necessary,  before  taking  up  the  task  in  the  regular  biograph- 
ical and  critical  way  of  the  introductory  cicerone,  to  make 
two  negative  observations.  It  did  not  lie,  as  some  have  ap- 
parently thought,  in  the  conception,  or  the  outlining,  or  the 
filling  up  of  such  a  scheme  as  the  Comedie  Humame.  In  the 
fir^'.  place  the  work  of  every  great  writer,  of  the  creative 
kind,  including  that  of  Dante  himself,  is  a  comedie  humame. 
All  humanity  is  latent  in  every  human  being;  and  the  great 
writers  are  merely  those  who  call  most  of  it  out  of  latency 
and  put  it  actually  on  the  stage.  And,  as  students  of  Balzac 
know,  the  scheme  and  adjustment  of  his  comedy  varied  so 
remarkably  as  time  went  on  that  it  can  hardly  be  said  to 
have  even  in  its  latest  form  (which  would  pretty  certainly 
have  been  altered  again)  a  distinct  and  definite  character.  Its 
so-called  scenes  (cheap  criticism  may  add  and  may  add  truly, 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  3 

though  not  to  much  purpose)  are  even  in  the  mass  by  no 
means  an  exhaustive,  and  are,  as  they  stand,  a  very  "  cross," 
division  of  life;  nor  are  they  peopled  by  anything  like  an 
exhaustive  selection  of  personages.  Nor  again  is  Balzac's 
genius  by  any  means  a  mere  vindication  of  the  famous  defi- 
nition of  that  quality  as  an  infinite  capacity  of  taking  pains. 
That  Balzac  had  that  capacity — had  it  in  a  degree  prob- 
ably unequalled  even  by  the  dullest  plodders  on  record — is 
very  well  known ;  is  one  of  the  best  known  things  about  him. 
But  he  showed  it  for  nearly  ten  years  before  the  genius 
came,  and  though  no  doubt  it  helped  him  when  genius  had 
come,  the  two  things  are  in  his  case,  as  in  most,  pretty  suf- 
ficiently distinct.  What  the  genius  itself  was  I  must  do  my 
best  to  indicate  hereafter,  always  beseeching  the  reader  to 
remember  that  all  genius  is  in  its  essence  and  quiddity  in- 
definable. You  can  no  more  get  close  to  it  than  you  can 
get  close  to  the  rainbow,  and  your  most  scientific  explana- 
tion of  it  will  always  leave  as  much  of  the  heart  of  the  fact 
unexplained  as  the  scientific  explanation  of  the  rainbow 
leaves  of  that. 

Honore  de  Balzac  was  born  at  Tours  on  the  16th  of  May, 
1799,  in  the  same  year  which  saw  the  birth  of  Heine,  and 
which  therefore  had  the  honor  of  producing  perhaps  the 
most  characteristic  (I  do  not  say  the  greatest)  writers  of 
the  nineteenth  century  in  prose  and  verse  respectively.  The 
family  was  a  respectable  one,  though  its  right  to  the  particle 
which  Balzac  always  carefully  assumed,  subscribing  himself 
(with  dubious  correctness,  though  the  point  is  an  argued 
one)  "  de  Balzac  "  was  contested.  And  there  appears  to  be 
no  proof  of  their  connection  with  Jean  Guez  de  Balzac,  the 
founder,  as  some  will  have  him,  of  modern  French  prose,  and 
the  contemporary  and  fellow-reformer  of  Malherbe.^  Bal- 
zac's father,  who,  as  the  zac  pretty  surely  indicates,  was  a 
southerner  and  a  native  of  Languedoc,  was  fifty-three  years 
old  at  the  birth  of  his  son,  whose  Christian  name  was  selected 
on  the  ordinary  principle  of  accepting  that  of  the  saint  on 

'  Indeed,  as  the  novelist  pointed  out  with  sufficient  pertinence,  his 
earlier  namesake  had  no  hereditary  right  to  the  name  at  all,  and  merely 
took  it  from  some  property. 


4i  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

whose  day  he  was  born.  Balzac  the  elder  had  been  a  bar- 
rister before  the  Revolution,  but  under  it  he  obtained  a  post 
in  the  commissariat,  and  rose  to  be  head  of  that  department 
for  a  military  division.  His  wife,  who  was  much  younger 
than  himself  and  who  survived  her  son,  is  said  to  have  pos- 
sessed both  beauty  and  fortune,  and  was  evidently  endowed 
with  the  business  faculties  so  common  among  Frenchwomen. 
When  Honore  was  born,  the  family  had  not  long  been  estab- 
lished at  Tours,  where  Balzac  the  elder  (besides  his  duties) 
had  a  house  and  some  land ;  and  this  town  continued  to  be 
their  headquarters  till  the  novelist,  who  was  the  eldest  of  the 
family,  was  about  sixteen.  He  had  two  sisters  (of  whom 
the  elder,  Laure,  afterwards  Madame  Surville,  was  his  first 
confidante  and  his  only  authoritative  biographer)  and  a 
younger  brother,  who  seems  to  have  been,  if  not  a  scape- 
grace, rather  a  burden  to  his  friends,  and  who  later  went 
abroad. 

The  eldest  boy  was,  in  spite  of  Rousseau,  put  out  to  nurse, 
and  at  seven  years  old  was  sent  to  the  Oratorian  grammar- 
school  at  Vendome,  where  he  stayed  another  seven  years, 
going  through,  according  to  his  own  account,  the  future 
experiences  and  performances  of  Louis  Lambert,  but  making 
no  reputation  for  himself  in  the  ordinary  school  course.  If, 
however,  he  would  not  work  in  his  teacher's  way,  he  over- 
worked himself  in  his  own  by  devouring  books ;  and  was  sent 
home  at  fourteen  in  such  a  state  of  health  that  his  grand- 
mother (who,  after  the  French  fashion,  was  living  with  her 
daughter  and  son-in-law),  ejaculated:  "  Voila  done  comme  le 
college  nous  renvoie  les  jolis  enfants  que  nous  lui  envoyons!  " 
It  would  seem  indeed  that,  after  making  all  due  allowance 
for  grandmotherly  and  sisterly  partiality,  Balzac  was 
actually  a  very  good-looking  boy  and  young  man,  though 
the  portraits  of  him  in  later  life  may  not  satisfy  the  more 
romantic  expectations  of  his  admirers.  He  must  have  had 
at  all  times  eyes  full  of  character,  perhaps  the  only  feature 
that  never  fails  in  men  of  intellectual  eminence;  but  he 
certainly  does  not  seem  to  have  been  in  his  manhood  either 
exactly  handsome  or  exactly  (to  use  a  foolish-sounding  term 
which  yet  has  no  exact  equivalent  of  better  sound)  "  distin- 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  5 

gulshed-looklng."  But  the  portraits  of  the  middle  of  the 
century  are,  as  a  rule,  rather  wanting  in  this  characteristic 
when  compared  with  those  of  its  first  and  last  periods ;  and 
I  cannot  think  of  many  that  quite  come  up  to  one's  expecta- 
tions. 

For  a  short  time  he  was  left  pretty  much  to  himself,  and 
recovered  rapidly.  But  late  in  1814  a  change  of  official  duties 
removed  the  Balzacs  to  Paris,  and  when  they  had  established 
themselves  in  the  famous  old  bourgeois  quarter  of  the  Marais, 
Honore  was  sent  to  divers  private  tutors  or  private  schools 
till  he  had  "  finished  his  classes  "  in  1816  at  the  age  of 
seventeen  and  a  half.  Then  he  attended  lectures  at  the  Sor- 
bonne,  where  Villemain,  Guizot,  and  Cousin  were  lecturing, 
and  heard  them,  as  his  sister  tells  us,  enthusiastically,  though 
there  are  probably  no  three  writers  of  any  considerable 
repute  in  the  history  of  French  literature  who  stand  further 
apart  from  Balzac.  For  all  three  made  and  kept  their  fame 
by  spirited  and  agreeable  generalizations  and  expatiations, 
as  different  as  possible  from  the  savage  labor  of  observation 
on  the  one  hand  and  the  gigantic  developments  of  imagina- 
tion on  the  other,  which  were  to  compose  Balzac's  appeal. 
His  father  destined  him  for  the  law ;  and  for  three  years 
more  he  dutifully  attended  the  offices  of  an  attorney  and  a 
notary,  besides  going  through  the  necessary  lectures  and 
examinations.  All  these  trials  he  seems  to  have  passed,  if  not 
brilliantly,  yet  sufficiently. 

And  then  came  the  inevitable  crisis,  which  was  of  an  un- 
usually severe  nature.  A  notary,  who  was  a  friend  of  the 
elder  Balzac's  and  owed  him  some  gratitude,  offered  not 
merely  to  take  Honore  into  his  office,  but  to  allow  him  to  suc- 
ceed to  his  business,  which  was  a  very  good  one,  in  a  few 
years  on  very  favorable  terms.  Most  fathers,  and  nearly  all 
French  fathers,  would  have  jumped  at  this;  and  it  so  hap- 
pened that  about  the  same  time  M.  de  Balzac  was  under- 
going that  unpleasant  process  of  compulsory  retirement 
which  his  son  has  described  in  one  of  the  best  passages  of  the 
CEuvres  de  Jeunesse,  the  opening  scene  of  Argow  le  Pirate. 
It  does  not  appear  that  Honore  had  revolted  during  his  pro- 
bation— indeed,  he  is  said,  and  we  can  easily  beUeve  it  from 


6  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

■his  books,  to  have  acquired  a  very  solid  knowledge  of  law, 
especially  in  bankruptcy  matters,  of  which  he  was  himself 
to  have  a  very  close  shave  in  future.  A  solicitor,  indeed,  told 
Laure  de  Balzac  that  he  found  Cesar  Birotteau  a  kind  of 
Balzac  on  Bankruptcy;  but  this  may  have  been  only  the 
solicitor's  fun. 

It  was  no  part  of  Honore's  intentions  to  use  this  knowl- 
edge— however  content  he  had  been  to  acquire  it — in  the 
least  interesting,  if  nearly  the  most  profitable,  of  the 
branches  of  the  legal  profession ;  and  he  protested  eloquently, 
and  not  unsuccessfully,  that  he  would  be  a  man  of  letters  and 
nothing  else.  Not  unsuccessfully ;  but  at  the  same  time  with 
distinctly  qualified  success.  He  was  not  turned  out  of  doors ; 
nor  were  the  supplies,  as  in  Quinet's  case  only  a  few  months 
later,  absolutely  withheld  even  for  a  short  time.  But  his 
mother  (who  seems  to  have  been  less  placable  than  her  hus- 
band) thought  that  cutting  them  down  to  the  lowest  point 
might  have  some  effect.  So,  as  the  family  at  this  time 
(April  1819)  left  Paris  for  a  house  some  twenty  miles  out  of 
it,  she  established  her  eldest  son  in  a  garret  furnished  in  the 
most  Spartan  fashion,  with  a  starvation  allowance  and  an 
old  woman  to  look  after  him.  He  did  not  literally  stay  in 
this  garret  for  the  ten  years  of  his  astonishing  and  unparal- 
leled probation ;  but  without  too  much  metaphor  it  may  be 
said  to  have  been  his  Wilderness,  and  his  Wanderings  in  it  to 
have  lasted  for  that  very  considerable  time. 

We  know,  in  detail,  very  little  of  him  during  the  period. 
For  the  first  years,  between  1819  and  1822,  we  have  a 
good  number  of  letters  to  Laure;  between  1822  and  1829, 
when  he  first  made  his  mark,  very  few.  He  began  of  course 
with  verse,  for  which  he  never  had  the  slightest  vocation, 
and  almost  equally  of  course  with  a  tragedy.  But  by 
degrees,  and  apparently  pretty  soon,  he  slipped  into  what 
was  his  vocation,  and  like  some,  though  not  very  many, 
great  writers,  at  first  did  little  better  in  it  than  if  it  had 
not  been  his  vocation  at  all.  The  singular  tentatives  which, 
after  being  allowed  for  a  short  time  a  sort  of  outhouse  in  the 
structure  of  the  Comedie  Humaine,  were  excluded  from  the 
octavo  Edition  Definitive   five-and-twenty   years   ago,   have 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  7 

never  been  the  object  of  that  exhaustive  bibliographical  and 
critical  attention  which  has  been  bestowed  on  those  which  fol- 
low them.  They  were  not  absolutely  unproductive — we  hear  of 
sixty,  eighty,  a  hundred  pounds  being  paid  for  them,  though 
whether  this  was  the  amount  of  Balzac's  always  sanguine 
expectations,  or  hard  cash  actually  handed  over,  we  cannot 
say.  They  were  very  numerous,  though  the  reprints  spoken 
of  above  never  extended  to  more  than  ten.  Even  these  have 
never  been  widely  read.  The  only  person  I  ever  knew  till 
I  began  this  present  task  who  had  read  them  through  was 
the  friend  whom  all  his  friends  are  now  lamenting  and  are 
not  likely  soon  to  cease  to  lament,  Mr.  Louis  Stevenson ;  and 
when  I  once  asked  him  whether,  on  his  honor  and  conscience, 
he  could  recommend  me  to  brace  myself  to  the  same  effort,  he 
said  that  on  his  honor  and  conscience  he  must  most  earn- 
estly dissuade  me.  I  gather,  though  I  am  not  sure,  that 
Mr.  Wedmore,  the  latest  writer  in  English  on  Balzac  at 
any  length,  had  not  read  them  through  when  he  wrote. 

Now  I  have,  and  a  most  curious  study  they  are.  Indeed 
I  am  not  sorry,  as  Mr.  Wedmore  thinks  one  would  be,  to 
have  been  for  my  sins  compelled  to  read  them.  Nay  more, 
I  should  have  been  really  sorry  if  this  or  some  other  occasion 
had  not  imposed  upon  me  this  particular  punishment  of 
the  sinner.  They  are  curiously,  interestingly,  almost 
enthrallingly  bad.  Couched  for  the  most  part  in  a  kind 
of  Radcliffian  or  Monk-Lewisian  vein — perhaps  studied  more 
directly  from  Maturin  (of  whom  Balzac  was  a  great  ad- 
mirer) than  from  either — they  often  begin  with  and  some- 
tim.es  contain  at  intervals  passages  not  unlike  the  Balzac 
that  we  know.  The  attractive  title  of  Jane  la  Pale  (it  was 
originally  called,  with  a  still  more  Early  Romantic  avidity 
for  baroque  titles,  W ann-Chlore )  has  caused  it,  I  believe, 
to  be  more  commonly  read  than  any  other.  I  know  at 
least  three  if  not  four  people  in  England  who  claim  acquain- 
tance with  it.  It  deals  with  a  disguised  duke,  a  villainous 
Italian,  bigamy,  a  surprising  offer  (which  I  wish  Balzac 
had  had  the  courage  to  represent  as  accepted  and  carried 
out)  of  the  angelic  first  wife  to  submit  to  a  sort  of  double 
arrangement,  the  death  of  the  second  wife  and  first  love, 


8  HONOEE  DE  BALZAC 

and  a  great  many  other  things.  Argow  le  Fir  ate  opens 
quite  decently  and  in  order  with  that  story  of  the  employe 
which  Balzac  was  to  re-handle  so  often,  but  drops  suddenly 
into  brigands  stopping  diligences,  the  marriage  of  the 
heroine  Annette  with  a  retired  pirate  marquis  of  vast  wealth, 
the  trial  of  the  latter  for  murdering  another  marquis  with 
a  poisoned  fish-bone  scarfpin,  his  execution,  the  sanguinary 
reprisals  by  his  redoubtable  lieutenant,  and  a  finale  of 
blunderbusses,  fire,  devoted  peasant  girl  with  retrousse  nose, 
and  almost  every  possible  tremhlement. 

Ill  strictness,  mention  of  this  should  have  been  preceded 
by  mention  of  Le  Vicaire  des  Ardennes,  which  is  a  sort  of 
first  part  of  Argow  le  Pirate,  and  not  only  gives  an  account 
of  his  crimes,  early  history,  and  manners  (which  seem  to 
have  been  a  little  robustious  for  such  a  mild-mannered  man 
as  Annette's  husband),  but  tells  a  thrilling  tale  of  the  loves 
of  the  vicaire  himself  and  a  young  woman,  which  loves  are 
crossed,  first  by  the  belief  that  they  are  brother  and  sister, 
and  secondly  by  the  vicaire  having  taken  orders  under  tliis 
delusion.  La  Derniere  Fee  is  the  queerest  possible  cross 
between  an  actual  fairy  story  a  la  Nodier  and  a  history  of 
the  fantastic  and  inconstant  loves  of  a  great  English  lady, 
the  Duchess  of  "  Sommerset  "  ( a  piece  of  actual  scandalum 
magnatum  nearly  as  bad  as  Balzac's  cool  use  in  his  acknowl- 
edged work  of  the  title  "  Lord  Dudley  ").  This  book  begins 
so  well  that  one  expects  it  to  go  on  better ;  but  the  inevitable 
defects  in  craftsmanship  show  themselves  before  long.  Le 
Centenaire  connects  itself  with  Balzac's  almost  lifelong 
hankering  after  the  recJierche  de  Vabsolu  in  one  form  or 
another,  for  the  hero  is  a  wicked  old  person  who  every  now 
and  then  refreshes  his  hold  on  life  by  immolating  a  virgin 
under  a  copper  bell.  It  is  one  of  the  most  extravagant  and 
*'  Monk-Lewisy  "  of  the  whole.  L' Excommunie,  L  Israelite, 
and  L^Herificre  de  Birague  are  mediseval  or  fifteenth  cen- 
tury tales  of  the  most  luxuriant  kind,  UExcommvnie  being 
the  best,  L'Israelite  the  most  preposterous,  and  L'Heritiere 
de  Birague  the  dullest.  But  it  is  not  nearly  so  dull  as  Dom 
Gigadus  and  Jean  Louis,  the  former  of  which  deals  with 
the    end    of    the    seventeenth    century    and    the    latter    with 


HONOEE  DE  BALZAC  9" 

the  end  of  the  eighteenth.  These  are  both  as  nearly  un- 
readable as  anything  can  be.  One  interesting  thing,  how- 
ever, should  be  noted  in  much  of  this  early  work:  the  affec- 
tionate clinging  of  the  author  to  the  scenery  of  Touraine, 
which  sometimes  inspires  him  with  his  least  bad  passages. 

It  is  generally  agreed  that  these  singular  (Euvres  de 
Jeunesse  were  of  service  to  Balzac  as  exercises,  and  no 
doubt  they  were  so;  but  I  think  something  may  be  said 
on  the  other  side.  They  must  have  done  a  little,  if  not 
much,  to  lead  him  into  and  confirm  him  in  those  defects  of 
style  and  form  wliich  distinguish  him  so  remarkably  from 
most  writers  of  his  rank.  It  very  seldom  happens  when  a 
very  young  man  writes  very  much,  be  it  book-writing  or 
journalism,  without  censure  and  without  "  editing,"  that  he 
does  not  at  the  same  time  get  into  loose  and  slipshod  habits. 
And  I  think  we  may  set  down  to  this  peculiar  form  of 
apprenticeship  of  Balzac's  not  merely  his  failure  ever  to 
attain,  except  in  passages  and  patches,  a  thoroughly  great 
style,  but  also  that  extraordinary  method  of  composition 
which  in  after  days  cost  him  and  his  publishers  so  much 
money. 

However,  if  these  ten  years  of  probation  taught  him  his 
trade,  they  taught  him  also  a  most  unfortunate  avocation 
or  by-trade,  which  he  never  ceased  to  practice,  or  to  try 
to  practice,  which  never  did  him  the  very  least  good,  and 
which  not  unfrequently  lost  him  much  of  the  not  too  abun- 
dant gains  which  he  earned  with  such  enormous  labor. 
This  was  the  "  game  of  speculation."  His  sister  puts  the 
tempter's  part  on  an  unknown  "  neighbor,"  who  advised 
him  to  try  to  procure  independence  by  une  bonne  speculation. 
Those  who  have  read  Balzac's  books  and  his  letters  will 
hardly  think  that  he  required  much  tempting.  He  began 
by  trying  to  publish — an  attempt  which  has  never  yet 
succeeded  with  a  single  man  of  letters,  so  far  as  I  can  remem- 
ber. His  scheme  was  not  a  bad  one,  indeed  it  was  one  which 
has  brought  much  money  to  other  pockets  since,  being 
neither  more  nor  less  than  the  issuing  of  cheap  one-volume 
editions  of  French  classics.  But  he  had  hardly  any  capital ; 
he  was  naturally  quite  ignorant  of  his  trade,  and  as  nat- 


10  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

urally  the  established  publishers  and  booksellers  boycotted 
him  as  an  intruder.  So  his  Moliere  and  his  La  Fontaine  are 
said  to  have  been  sold  as  waste  paper,  though  if  any  copies 
escaped  they  would  probably  fetch  a  very  comfortable  price 
now.  Then,  such  capital  as  he  had  having  been  borrowed, 
the  lender,  either  out  of  good  nature  or  avarice,  determined 
to  throw  the  helve  after  the  hatchet.  He  partly  advanced 
himself  and  partly  induced  Balzac's  parents  to  advance  more, 
in  order  to  start  the  young  man  as  a  printer,  to  which  busi- 
ness Honore  himself  added  that  of  typefounder.  The  story 
was  just  the  same:  knowledge  and  capital  were  again  want- 
ing, and  though  actual  bankruptcy  was  avoided,  Balzac 
got  out  of  the  matter  at  the  cost  not  merely  of  giving  the 
two  businesses  to  a  friend  (in  whose  hands  they  proved 
profitable),  but  of  a  margin  of  debt  from  which  he  may  be 
said  never  to  have  fully  cleared  himself. 

He  had  more  than  twenty  years  to  live,  but  he  never  cured 
himself  of  this  hankering  after  une  honne  speculation. 
Sometimes  it  was  ordinary  stock-exchange  gambling ;  but  his 
special  weakness  was,  to  do  him  justice,  for  schemes  that 
had  something  more  grandiose  in  them.  Thus,  to  finish  here 
with  the  subject,  though  the  chapter  of  it  never  actually 
finished  till  his  death,  he  made  years  afterwards,  when  he 
was  a  successful  and  a  desperately  busy  author,  a  long, 
troublesome,  and  costly  journey  to  Sardinia  to  carry  out 
a  plan  of  re-smelting  the  slag  from  Roman  and  other  mines 
there.  Thus  in  his  very  latest  days,  when  he  was  living  at 
Vierzschovnia  with  the  Hanska  and  Mniszech  household,  he 
conceived  the  magnificently  absurd  notion  of  cutting  down 
twenty  thousand  acres  of  oak  wood  in  the  Ukraine,  and 
sending  it  hy  railway  right  across  Europe  to  be  sold  in 
France.  And  he  was  rather  reluctantly  convinced  that  by 
the  time  a  single  log  reached  its  market  the  freight  would 
have  eaten  up  the  value  of  a  whole  plantation. 

It  was  perhaps  not  entirely  chance  that  the  collapse  of 
the  printing  scheme  which  took  place  in  1827,  the  ninth 
year  of  the  Wanderings  in  the  Wilderness,  coincided  with 
or  immediately  preceded  the  conception  of  the  book  which 
was  to  give  Balzac  passage  into  the  Promised  Land.     This 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  11 

was  Les  Chouans,  called  at  its  first  issue,  which  diflPered  con- 
siderably from  the  present  form,  Le  Dernier  Chouan  ou  la 
Bret  ague  en  1800  (later  1799).  It  was  pubhshed  in  1829 
without  any  of  the  previous  anagrammatic  pseudonyms ;  and 
whatever  were  the  reasons  which  had  induced  him  to  make 
his  bow  in  person  to  the  public,  they  were  well  justified,  for 
the  book  was  a  distinct  success,  if  not  a  great  one.  It 
occupies  a  kind  of  middle  position  between  the  melo-dramatic 
romance  of  his  nonage  and  the  strictly  analytic  romance- 
novel  of  his  later  time;  and,  though  dealing  with  war  and 
love  chiefly,  inclines  in  conception  distinctly  to  the  latter. 
Corentin,  Hulot,  and  other  personages  of  the  actual  Comedy 
(then  by  no  means  planned  or  at  least  avowed)  appear;  and 
though  the  influence  of  Scott  is  in  a  way  paramount  ^  on 
the  surface,  the  under-work  is  quite  different,  and  the  whole 
scheme  of  the  loves  of  Montauran  and  Mademoiselle  de  Ver- 
neuil  is  pure  Balzac. 

It  would  seem  as  if  nothing  but  this  sun  of  popular 
approval  had  been  wanted  to  make  Balzac's  genius  burst  out 
in  full  bloom.  Although  we  have  a  fair  number  of  letters 
for  the  ensuing  years,  it  is  not  very  easy  to  make  out  the 
exact  sequence  of  production  of  the  marvelous  harvest  which 
his  genius  gave.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  in  the  three  years 
following  1829  there  were  actually  published  the  Fhysiologie 
dii  Manage,  the  charming  story  of  La  Maison  du  Chat- 
qid-Pelote,  the  Peau  de  Chagrin,  the  most  original  and 
splendid,  if  not  the  most  finished  and  refined  of  all  Balzac's 
books,  most  of  the  short  Contes  Philosophiques,  of  which  some 

^Balzac  was  throughout  his  life  a  fervent  admirer  of  Sir  Walter, 
and  I  think  Mr.  Wedmore,  in  his  passage  on  the  subject,  distinctly 
undervalues  both  the  character  and  the  duration  of  this  esteem.  Balzac 
was  far  too  acute  to  commit  the  common  mistalce  of  thinliing  Scott 
superficial— men  who  know  mankind  are  not  often  blind  to  each  other  s 
knowledge.  And  while  Mr.  Wedmore  seems  not  to  know  any  testimony 
later  than  Balzac's  thirty-eighth  year,  it  is  in  his  forty-sixth,  when  all 
his  own  best  work  was  done,  except  the  Parents  Pauvres,  that  he 
contrasts  Dumas  with  Scott,  saying  that  on  relit  Walter  Scott,  and  he 
does  not  think  anyone  will  re-read  Dumas.  This  may  be  unjust  to  the 
one  writer,  but  it  is  conclusive  as  to  any  sense  of  "wasted  time' 
(his  own  phrase)^  having  ever  existed  in  Balzac's  mind  about  the 
other. 


12  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

are  among  their  author's  greatest  triumphs,  many  other 
stories  (chiefly  included  in  the  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Privee)  and 
the  beginning  of  the  Contes  Drolatiques.^ 

But  without   a   careful   examination   of  his   miscellaneous 
work,  which  is  very  abundant  and  includes  journalism  as  well 
as  books,  it  is  almost  as  impossible  to  come  to  a  just  apprecia- 
tion of  Balzac  as  it  is  without  reading  the  early  works  and  the 
letters.    This  miscellaneous  work  is  all  the  m  )re  important  be- 
cause a  great  deal  of  it  represents  the  ai  list  at  quite  ad- 
vanced stages  of  his  career,  and  because  all  its  examples,  the 
earlier  as  well  as  the  later,  give  us  abundanc  insight  on  him 
as  he  was  "  making  himself."    The  comparison  with  the  early 
work  of  Thackeray  (in  Punch,  Frascr,  and  elsewhere)  is  so 
striking  that  it  can  escape  no  one  who  Icnows  the  two.    Every 
now  and  then  Balzac  transferred  bodily,  or  with  slight  alter 
ations,  passages  from  these  experiments  to  his  finished  can 
vases.     It  appears  that  he  had  a  scheme  for  codifying  his 
*'  Physiologies  "  (of  which  the  notorious  one  aV  Dve  mer  ioned 
is  only  a  catchpenn}'^  exemplar  and  very  far  from  th     best] 
into  a  seriously  organized  work.     Chance  war     ind  or  )  iten-j 
tion  was  wise  in  not  allowing  him  to  do  so ;  but  the  value  oi 
the  things  for  the  critical  reader  is  not  less.     Here  are  tale; 
— extensions  of  the  scheme  and  manner  of  the  CEuvres  di 
Jeunesse,  or  attempts  (not  often  happy)  at  the  gogucnarc 
story  of  1830 — a  thing  for  which  Balzac's  hand  was  hardl; 

*  No  regular  attempt  will  after  this  be  made  to  indicate  the  date  o 
production  of  successive  works,  unless  they  connect  themselves  verl 
distinctly  with  incidents  in  the  life  or  with  general  critical  observa[ 
tions.  At  the  end  of  this  introduction  will  be  found  a  full  table  o 
the  ComMie  Humaine  and  the  other  works;  while,  as  explained  in  th 
first  note,  additional  bibliographical  information,  as  to  dates  an 
otherwise,  will  be  found  in  the  introduction  or  short  note  to  each  stor; 
It  may  perhaps  be  worth  while  to  add  here,  that  while  the  labors  c 
M.  de  Lovenjoul  (to  whom  every  writer  on  Balzac  must  acknowledge  tl 
deepest  obligation)  have  cleared  this  matter  up  almost  to  the  verj| 
of  possibility  as  regards  the  published  works,  there  is  little  light  to  1 
thrown  on  the  constant  references  in  the  letters  to  books  which  nev 
appeared.  Sometimes  they  are  known,  and  they  may  often  be  suspecte 
to  have  been  absorbed  into  or  incorporated  with  others;  tlie  rest  mu 
have  been  lost  or  destroyed,  or  which  is  not  quite  impossible,  hai 
existed  chiefly  in  the  form  of  project.  Nearly  a  hundred  titles  of  su 
things  are  preserved. 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  13 

light  enough.  Here  are  interesting  evidences  of  striving 
to  be  cosmopolitan  and  polyglot — ^the  most  interesting  of  all 
of  which,  I  think,  is  the  mention  of  certain  British  products 
as  "  mufflings."  "  Muffling  "  used  to  be  a  domestic  joke  for 
"  muffin  " ;  but  whether  some  wicked  Briton  deluded  Balzac 
into  the  idea  that  it  was  the  proper  form  or  not  it  is  impos- 
sible to  say.  Here  is  a  Traite  de  la  Vie  Elegante,  inestimable 
for  certain  critical  purposes.  So  early  as  1825  we  find  a 
Code  des  Gens  Honnetes,  which  exhibits  at  once  the  author's 
legal  studies  and  his  constant  attraction  for  the  shady  side 
of  business,  and  which  contains  a  scheme  for  defrauding  by 
means  of  lead  pencils,  actually  carried  out  (if  we  may  believe 
his  exulting  note)  by  some  literary  swindlers  with  unhappy 
results.  A  year  later  he  wrote  a  Dictionnaire  des  Enseignes 
de  Paris,  which  we  are  glad  enough  to  have  from  the  author 
of  the  Chat-qui-Pelote ;  but  the  persistence  with  which  this 
kind  of  miscellaneous  writing  occupied  him  could  not  be  better 
exemplified  than  by  the  fact  that,  of  two  important  works 
which  closely  follow  this  in  the  collected  edition,  the  Physi- 
ologie  de  I  Employe  dates  from  1841  and  the  Monographie 
de  la  Presse  Parisienne  from  1843. 

It  is  well  known  that  from  the  time  almost  of  his  success 
as  a  novelist  he  was  given,  like  too  many  successful  novelists 
(not  like  Scott),  to  rather  undignified  and  foolish  attacks  on 
critics.  The  explanation  may  or  may  not  be  found  in  the 
fact  that  we  have  abundant  critical  work  of  his,  and  that 
it  is  nearly  all  bad.  Now  and  then  we  have  an  acute  remark 
in  his  own  special  sphere;  but  as  a  rule  he  cannot  be  com- 
plimented on  these  performances,  and  when  he  was  half  way 
through  his  career  tliis  critical  tendency  of  his  culminated  in 
the  unlucky  Revue  Parisienne,  which  he  wrote  almost  entirely 
himself,  with  slight  assistance  from  his  friends,  MM.  de  Bel- 
loy  and  de  Grammont.  It  covers  a  wide  range,  but  the  lit- 
erary part  of  it  is  considerable,  and  this  part  contains  that 
memorable  and  disastrous  attack  on  Sainte-Beuve,  for  which 
the  critic  afterwards  took  a  magnanimous  revenge  in  his 
obituary  causerie.  Although  the  thing  is  not  quite  unex- 
ampled it  is  not  easily  to  be  surpassed  in  the  blind  fury  of  its 
abuse.     Sainte-Beuve  was  by  no  means  invulnerable,  and  an 


14.  HONORS  DE  BALZAC 

anti-critic  who  kept  his  head  might  have  found,  as  M.  de 
Pontmartin  and  others  did  find,  the  joints  in  his  armor.  But 
when,  apropos  of  the  Port  Royal  more  especially,  and  of  the 
other  works  in  general,  Balzac  informs  us  that  Sainte-Beuve's 
great  characteristic  as  a  writer  is  Vennui,  Vennui  houeux 
jusqu^a  mi-jambe,  that  his  style  is  intolerable,  that  his  his- 
torical handling  is  like  that  of  Gibbon,  Hume,  and  other 
dull  people,  when  he  jeers  at  him  for  exhuming  "  La  mere 
Angelique,"  and  scolds  him  for  presuming  to  obscure  the 
glory  of  the  Roi  Soleil,  the  thing  is  partly  ludicrous,  partly 
melancholy.  One  remembers  that  agreeable  Bohemian,  who 
at  a  symposium  once  interrupted  his  host  by  crying,  "  Man 
o'  the  hoose,  gie  us  less  o'  yer  clack  and  mair  o'  yer  Jairman 
wine !  "  Only,  in  human  respect  and  other,  we  phrase  it : 
*'  Oh,  dear  M.  de  Balzac !  give  us  more  Eugenie  Grandets, 
more  Pere  Goriots,  more  Peaux  de  Chagrin,  and  don't  talk 
about  what  you  do  not  understand !  " 

Balzac  was  a  great  politician  also,  and  here,  though  he 
may  not  have  been  much  more  successful,  he  talked  with 
more  knowledge  and  competence.  He  must  have  given  him- 
self immense  trouble  in  reading  the  papers,  foreign  as  well  as 
French ;  he  had  really  mastered  a  good  deal  of  the  political 
religion  of  a  French  publicist.  It  is  curious  to  read,  sixty 
years  after  date,  his  grave  assertion  that  "  La  France  a  la 
conquete  de  Madagascar  a  faire,^'  and  with  certain  very  par- 
donable defects  (such  as  his  Anglophobia),  his  politics  may 
be  pronounced  not  unintelligent  and  not  ungenerous,  though 
somewhat  inconsistent  and  not  very  distinctly  traceable  to 
any  coherent  theory.  As  for  the  Anglophobia,  the  English- 
man who  thinks  the  less  of  him  for  that  must  have  very  poor 
and  unhappy  brains.  A  Frenchman  who  does  not  more  or 
less  hate  and  fear  England,  an  Englishman  who  does  not 
regard  France  with  a  more  or  less  good-humored  impatience, 
is  usually  "  either  a  god  or  a  beast,"  as  Aristotle  saith.  Bal- 
zac began  with  an  odd  but  not  unintelligible  compound,  some- 
thing like  Hugo's,  of  Napoleonism  and  Royalism.  In  1824, 
when  he  was  still  in  the  shades  of  anonymity,  he  wrote  and 
published  two  by  no  means  despicable  pamphlets  in  favor  of 
Primos;eniture  and  the  Jesuits,  the  latter  of  which  was  re- 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  15 

printed  in  1880  at  the  last  Jesuitenhetze  in  France.  His 
Lettres  sur  Paris  in  1830-31,  and  his  La  France  et  VEtran- 
ger  in  1836,  are  two  considerable  series  of  letters  from 
"  Our  Own  Correspondent,"  handling  the  affairs  of  the 
world  with  boldness  and  industry  if  not  invariably  with  wis- 
dom. They  rather  suggest  (as  does  the  later  Revue  Parisi- 
enne  still  more)  the  political  writing  of  the  age  of  Anne 
in  England,  and  perhaps  a  little  later,  when  "  the  wits  " 
handled  politics  and  society,  literature  and  things  in  gen- 
eral with  unquestioned  competence  and  an  easy  uni- 
versality. 

His  remaining  works,  the  Physiologie  du  Mariage  and 
the  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Conjugale,  suffer  not  merely  from  the 
most  obvious  of  their  faults  but  from  defect  of  knowl- 
edge. It  may  or  may  not  be  that  marriage,  in  the 
hackneyed  phrase,  is  a  net  or  other  receptacle  where 
all  the  outsiders  would  be  in,  and  all  the  insiders  out. 
But  it  is  quite  clear  that  Ccelebs  cannot  talk  of  it  with 
much  authority.  His  state  may  or  may  not  be  the 
more  gracious:  his  judgment  cannot  but  lack  experience. 
The  "  Theater,"  which  brought  its  author  little  if  any 
profit,  great  annoyance,  and  a  vast  amount  of  trouble, 
has  been  generally  condemned  by  criticism.  But  the 
Contes  Drolatiques  are  not  so  to  be  given  up.  The  famous 
and  splendid  Succube  is  only  the  best  of  them,  and  though 
all  are  more  or  less  tarred  with  the  brush  which  tars  so 
much  of  French  literature,  though  the  attempt  to  write  in 
an  archaic  style  is  at  best  a  very  successful  tour  de  force, 
and  represents  an  expenditure  of  brain  power  by  no  means 
justifiable  on  the  part  of  a  man  who  could  have  made  so 
much  better  use  of  it,  they  are  never  to  be  spoken  of  dis- 
respectfully. Those  who  sneer  at  their  "  Wardour  Street  " 
Old  French  are  not  usually  those  best  qualified  to  do  so ; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that  Balzac  was  a  real  country- 
man of  Rabelais  and  a  legitimate  inheritor  of  Gauloiserie. 
Unluckily  no  man  can  "  throw  back  "  in  this  way,  except 
now  and  then  as  a  mere  pastime.  And  it  is  fair  to  recol- 
lect that  as  a  matter  of  fact  Balzac,  after  a  year  or  two, 
did  not  waste  much  more  time  on  these  things,  and  that  the 


16  H0N0R:6  DE  BALZAC 

intended  ten  dizains  never,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  went  beyond 
three. 

Besides  this  work  in  books,  pamphlets,  etc.,  Balzac,  as  has 
been  said,  did  a  certain  amount  of  journalism,  especially  in 
the  Caricature,  his  performances  including,  I  regret  to  saj', 
more  than  one  pufF  of  his  own  work ;  and  in  this,  as  well  as  by 
the  success  of  the  Chouans,  he  became  known  about  1830  to  a 
much  wider  circle,  both  of  literary  and  of  private  acquain- 
tance. It  cannot  indeed  be  said  that  he  ever  mixed  much 
in  society ;  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  do  so,  consider- 
ing the  vast  amount  of  work  he  did  and  the  manner  in  which 
he  did  it.  Tliis  subject,  like  that  of  his  speculations,  may  be 
better  finished  off  in  a  single  passage  than  dealt  with  by  scat- 
tered indications  here  and  there.  He  was  not  one  of  those 
men  who  can  do  work  by  fits  and  starts  in  the  intervals  of 
business  or  of  amusement ;  nor  was  he  one  who,  like  Scott, 
could  work  very  rapidly.  It  is  true  that  he  often  achieved 
immense  quantities  of  work  (subject  to  a  caution  to  be  given 
presently)  in  a  very  few  da3's,  but  then  his  working  day  was 
of  the  most  peculiar  character.  He  could  not  bear  disturb- 
ance;  he  wrote  (as  probably  most  people  do)  best  at  night, 
and  he  could  not  work  at  all  after  heavy  meals.  His  favorite 
plan  (varied  sometimes  in  detail)  was  therefore  to  dine 
lightly  about  five  or  six,  then  to  go  to  bed  and  sleep  till  eleven, 
twelve,  or  one,  and  then  to  get  up,  and  with  the  help  only  of 
coffee  (which  he  drank  very  strong  and  in  enormous  quanti- 
ties) to  work  for  indefinite  stretches  of  time  into  the  morning 
or  afternoon  of  the  next  day.  He  speaks  of  a  sixteen  hours' 
day  as  a  not  uncommon  shift  of  work,  and  almost  a  regular 
one  with  him ;  and  on  one  occasion  he  avers  that  in  the  course 
of  forty-eight  hours  he  took  but  three  of  rest,  working  for 
twenty-two  hours  and  a  half  continuously  on  each  side  there- 
of. In  such  spells,  supposing  reasonable  facility  of  com- 
position and  mechanical  power  in  the  hand  to  keep  going  all 
the  time,  an  enormous  amount  can  of  course  be  accomplished. 
A  thousand  words  an  hour  is  anything  but  an  extraordinary 
rate  of  writing,  and  fifteen  hundred  by  no  means  unheard  of 
with  persons  who  do  not  write  rubbish. 

The  references  to  this  subject  in  Balzac's  letters  are  very 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  17 

numerous ;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  extract  very  definite  informa- 
tion from  them.  It  would  be  not  only  impolite  but  incorrect 
to  charge  him  with  unveracity.  But  the  very  heat  of  imagi- 
nation which  enabled  him  to  produce  his  work  created  a  sort 
of  mirage,  through  which  he  seems  always  to  have  regarded 
it;  and  in  writing  to  publishers,  editors,  creditors,  and  even 
his  own  family,  it  was  too  obviously  his  interest  to  make  the 
most  of  his  labor,  his  projects,  and  his  performance.  Even 
his  contemporary,  though  elder,  Southey,  the  hardest-work- 
ing and  the  most  scrupulously  honest  man  of  letters  in  Eng- 
land who  could  pretend  to  genius,  seems  constantly  to  have 
exaggerated  the  idea  of  what  he  could  perform,  if  not  of  what 
he  had  performed  in  a  given  time.  The  most  definite  state- 
ment of  Balzac's  that  I  remember  is  one  which  claims  the 
second  number  of  Sur  Catherine  de  Medicis,  "  La  Confidence 
des  Ruggieri,"  as  the  production  of  a  single  night,  and  not 
one  of  the  most  extravagant  of  his  nights.  Now  "  La  Con- 
fidence des  Ruggieri  "  fills,  in  the  small  edition,  eighty^  pages 
of  nearer  four  hundred  than  three  hundred  words  each,  or 
some  thirty  thousand  words  in  all.  Nobody  in  the  longest  of 
nights  could  manage  that,  except  by  dictating  it  to  short- 
hand clerks.  But  in  the  very  context  of  this  assertion  Balzac 
assigns  a  much  longer  period  to  the  correction  than  to  the 
composition,  and  this  brings  us  to  one  of  the  most  curious  and 
one  of  the  most  famous  points  of  his  literary  history. 

Some  doubts  have,  I  believe,  been  thrown  on  the  most 
minute  account  of  his  ways  of  composition  which  we  have, 
that  of  the  publisher  Werdet.  But  there  is  too  great  a  con- 
sensus of  evidence  as  to  his  general  system  to  make  the  re- 
ceived description  of  it  doubtful.  According  to  this,  the  first 
draft  of  Balzac's  work  never  presented  it  in  anything  like 
fullness,  and  sometimes  did  not  amount  to  a  quarter  of  the 
bulk  finally  published.  This  being  returned  to  him  from  the 
printer  in  "  slip  "  on  sheets  with  very  large  margins,  he 
would  set  to  work  on  the  correction ;  that  is  to  say  on  the 
practical  re-writing  of  the  thing,  with  excisions,  alterations, 
and  above  all,  additions.  A  "  revise  "  being  executed,  he 
would  attack  this  revise  in  the  same  manner,  and  not  un- 
frequently  more  than   once,   so  that   the  expenses   of  mere 


18  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

composition  and  correction  of  the  press  were  enormously 
heavy  (so  heavy  as  to  eat  into  not  merely  his  publisher's  but 
his  own  profits),  and  that  the  last  state  of  the  book,  when 
published,  was  something  utterly  different  from  its  first  state 
in  manuscript.  And  it  will  be  obvious  that  if  anything  like 
this  was  usual  with  him,  it  is  quite  impossible  to  judge  his 
actual  rapidity  of  composition  by  the  extent  of  the  published 
result. 

However  this  may  be  (and  it  is  at  least  certain  that  in  the 
years  above  referred  to  he  must  have  worked  his  very  hardest, 
even  if  some  of  the  work  then  published  had  been  more  or  less 
excogitated  and  begun  during  the  Wilderness  period),  he 
certainly  so  far  left  his  eremitical  habits  as  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  most  of  the  great  men  of  letters  of  the  early 
thirties,  and  also  with  certain  ladies  of  more  or  less  high  rank, 
who  were  to  supply,  if  not  exactly  the  full  models,  the  texts 
and  starting-points  for  some  of  the  most  interesting  figures 
of  the  Comedie.  He  knew  Victor  Hugo,  but  certainly  not 
at  this  time  intimately ;  for  as  late  as  1839  the  letter  in  which 
he  writes  to  Hugo  to  come  and  breakfast  with  him  at  Les  Jar- 
dies  (with  interesting  and  minute  directions  how  to  find  that 
frail  abode  of  genius)  is  couched  in  any  tiling  but  the  tone  of 
a  familiar  friendship.  The  letters  to  Beyle  of  about  the  same 
date  are  also  incompatible  with  intimate  knowledge.  Nodier 
(after  some  contrary  expressions)  he  seems  to  have  regarded 
as  most  good  people  did  regard  that  true  man  of  letters  and 
charming  tale-teller ;  while  among  the  younger  generation 
Theophile  Gautier  and  Charles  de  Bernard,  as  well  as  Gozlan 
and  others,  were  his  real  and  constant  friends.  But  he  does 
not  figure  frequently  or  eminently  in  any  of  the  genuine  gos- 
sip of  the  time  as  a  haunter  of  literary  circles,  and  it  is  very 
nearly  certain  that  the  assiduity  with  which  some  of  his  heroes 
attend  salons  and  clubs  had  no  counterpart  in  his  own  life. 
In  the  first  place  he  was  too  busy ;  in  the  second  he  would  not 
have  been  at  home  there.  Like  the  young  gentleman  in 
Punch,  who  "  did  not  read  books  but  wrote  them,"  though  in 
no  satiric  sense,  he  felt  it  his  business  not  to  frequent  society 
but  to  create  it. 

He  was,  however,  aided  in  the  task  of  creation  by  the  ladies 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  19 

already  spoken  of,  who  were  fairly  numerous  and  of  divers 
degrees.  The  most  constant  after  his  sister  Laure  was  that 
sister's  schoolfellow,  Madame  Zulma  Carraud,  the  wife  of  a 
military  official  at  Angouleme  and  the  possessor  of  a  small 
country  estate  at  Frapesle,  near  Tours.  At  both  of  these 
places  Balzac,  till  he  was  a  very  great  man,  was  a  constant 
visitor,  and  with  Madame  Carraud  he  kept  up  for  years  a 
correspondence  which  has  been  held  to  be  merely  friendly, 
and  which  was  certainly  in  the  vulgar  sense  innocent,  but 
which  seems  to  me  to  be  tinged  with  something  of  that  feeling, 
midway  between  love  and  f  riendship^  which  appears  in  Scott's 
letters  to  Lady  Abercorn,  and  which  is  probably  not  so  rare 
as  some  think.  Madame  de  Berny,  another  family  friend  of 
higher  rank,  was  the  prototype  of  most  of  his  "  angelic  '* 
characters,  but  she  died  in  1836.  He  knew  the  Duchesse 
d'Abrantes,  otherwise  Madame  Junot,  and  Madame  de  Girar- 
din,  otherwise  Delphine  Gay ;  but  neither  seems  to  have  exer- 
cised much  influence  over  him.  It  was  different  with  another 
and  more  authentic  duchess,  Madame  de  Castries,  after  whom 
he  dangled  for  a  considerable  time,  who  certainly  first  en- 
couraged him  and  probably  then  snubbed  him,  and  who  is 
thought  to  have  been  the  model  of  his  wickeder  great  ladies. 
And  it  was  comparatively  early  in  the  thirties  that  he  met 
the  woman  whom,  after  nearly  twenty  years,  he  was  at  last  to 
marry,  getting  his  death  in  so  doing,  the  Polish  Madame 
Hanska.  These,  with  some  relations  of  the  last  named,  espe- 
cially her  daughter,  and  with  a  certain  "  Louise  " — an  In- 
connue  who  never  ceased  to  be  so — were  Balzac's  chief  cor- 
respondents of  the  other  sex,  and  as  far  as  is  known,  his  chief 
friends  in  it. 

About  his  life,  without  extravagant  "  padding  "  of  guess- 
work or  of  mere  quotation  and  abstract  of  his  letters,  it 
would  be  not  so  much  difficult  as  impossible  to  say  much ;  and 
accordingly  it  is  a  matter  of  fact  that  most  lives  of  Balzac, 
including  all  good  ones,  are  rather  critical  than  narrative. 
From  his  real  debut  with  Le  Dernier  Chouan  to  his  departure 
for  Poland  on  the  long  visit,  or  brace  of  visits,  from  which 
he  returned  finally  to  die,  this  life  consisted  solely  of  work. 
One  of  his  earliest  utterances,  "  II  faut  piocher  ferme"  was 


20  HONOKE  DE  BALZAC 

his  motto  to  the  very  last,  varied  only  by  a  certain  amount  of 
traveling.  Balzac  was  always  a  considerable  traveler ;  indeed 
if  he  had  not  been  so  his  constitution  would  probably  have 
broken  down  long  before  it  actually  did;  and  the  expense  of 
these  voyagings  (though by  his  own  account  he  generally  con- 
ducted his  affairs  with  the  most  rigid  economy),  together 
with  the  interruption  to  his  work  which  they  occasioned,  en- 
tered no  doubt  for  something  into  his  money  difficulties.  He 
would  go  to  Baden  or  Vienna  for  a  day's  sight  of  Madame 
Hanska ;  his  Sardinian  visit  has  been  already  noted ;  and  as  a 
specimen  of  others  it  may  be  mentioned  that  he  once  jour- 
neyed from  Paris  to  Besan9on,  then  from  Besan^on  right 
across  France  to  Angouleme,  and  then  back  to  Paris  on  some 
business  of  selecting  paper  for  one  of  the  editions  of  his  books, 
which  his  publishers  would  probably  have  done  much  better 
and  at  much  less  expense. 

Still  his  actual  receipts  were  surprisingly  small,  partly,  it 
may  be,  owing  to  his  expensive  habits  of  composition,  but  far 
more,  according  to  his  own  account,  because  of  the  Belgian 
piracies,  from  which  all  popular  French  authors  suffered  till 
(I  think)  the  government  of  Napoleon  the  Third  managed 
to  put  a  stop  to  them.  He  also  lived  in  such  a  thick  atmo- 
sphere of  bills  and  advances  and  cross-claims  on  and  by  his 
publishers,  that  even  if  there  were  more  documents  than  there 
are  it  would  be  exceedingly  difficult  to  get  at  facts  which  are, 
after  all,  not  very  important.  He  never  seems  to  have  been 
paid  much  more  than  £500  for  the  newspaper  publication 
(the  most  valuable  by  far  because  the  pirates  could  not  in- 
terfere with  its  profits)  of  any  one  of  his  novels.  And  to  ex- 
pensive fashions  of  composition  and  complicated  accounts,  a 
steady  back-drag  of  debt  and  the  rest,  must  be  added  the 
very  delightful,  and  to  a  novelist  not  useless,  but  very  ex- 
pensive mania  of  the  collector.  Balzac  had  a  genuine  taste 
for,  and  thought  himself  a  genuine  connoisseur  in,  pictures, 
sculpture,  and  objects  of  art  of  all  kinds,  old  and  new;  and 
though  prices  in  his  day  were  not  what  they  are  in  these,  a 
great  deal  of  money  must  have  run  through  his  hands  in  this 
way.  He  calculated  the  value  of  the  contents  of  the  house, 
jvhich  in  his  last  days  he  furnished  with  such  loving  care  for 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  21 

his  wife,  and  which  turned  out  to  be  a  chamber  rather  of 
death  than  of  marriage,  at  some  £16,000.  But  part  of  this 
was  of  Madame  Hanska's  own  purchasing,  and  there  were 
offsets  of  indebtedness  against  it  almost  to  the  last.  In  short, 
though  during  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  life  such  actual 
"  want  of  pence  "  as  vexed  him  was  not  due,  as  it  had  been 
earlier,  to  the  fact  that  the  pence  refused  to  come  in,  but 
only  to  imprudent  management  of  them,  it  certainly  cannot 
be  said  that  Honore  de  Balzac,  the  most  desperately  hard 
worker  in  all  literature  for  such  time  as  was  allotted  him,  and 
perhaps  the  man  of  greatest  genius  who  was  ever  a  desper- 
ately hard  worker,  falsified  that  most  uncomfortable  but 
truest  of  proverbs — "  Hard  work  never  made  money." 

If,  however,  he  was  but  scantily  rewarded  with  the  money 
for  which  he  had  a  craving  (not  absolutely,  I  think,  devoid 
of  a  touch  of  genuine  avarice,  but  consisting  chiefly  of  the 
artist's  desire  for  pleasant  and  beautiful  things,  and  partly 
presenting  a  variety  or  phase  of  the  grandiose  imagination, 
which  was  his  ruling  characteristic),  Balzac  had  plenty  of 
the  fame  for  which  he  cared  quite  as  much  as  he  cared  for 
money.  Perhaps  no  writer  except  Voltaire  and  Goethe  earlier 
made  such  a  really  European  reputation ;  and  his  books  were 
of  a  kind  to  be  more  widely  read  by  the  general  public  than 
either  Goethe's  or  Voltaire's.  In  England  (Balzac  liked  our 
literature  but  did  not  love  us,  and  never  came  here,  though 
I  believe  he  planned  a  visit)  this  popularity  was,  for  obvious 
reasons,  rather  less  than  elsewhere.  The  respectful  vogue 
which  French  literature  had  had  among  us  in  the  eighteenth 
century  had  ceased,  owing  partly  to  the  national  enmity  re- 
vived and  fostered  by  the  great  war,  and  partly  to  the 
growth  of  a  fresh  and  magnificent  literature  at  home  during 
the  first  thirty  years  of  the  nineteenth  in  England.  But  Bal- 
zac could  not  fail  to  be  read  almost  at  once  by  the  lettered; 
and  he  was  translated  pretty  early,  though  not  perhaps  to 
any  great  extent.  It  was  in  England,  moreover,  that  by  far 
his  greatest  follower  appeared,  and  appeared  very  shortly. 
For  it  would  be  absurd  in  the  most  bigoted  admirer  of  Thack- 
eray to  deny  that  the  author  of  Vanity  Fair,  who  was  in 
Paris  and  narrowly  watching  French  literature  and  French 


22  HONOEE  DE  BALZAC 

life  at  the  very  time  of  Balzac's  most  exuberant  flourishing 
and  education,  owed  something  to  the  author  of  Le  Fere 
Goriot.  There  was  no  copying  or  imitation ;  the  lessons 
taught  by  Balzac  were  too  much  blended  with  those  of  native 
masters,  such  as  Fielding,  and  too  much  informed  and  trans- 
formed by  individual  genius.  Some  may  think — it  is  a  point 
at  issue  not  merely  between  Frenchmen  and  Englishmen,  but 
between  good  judges  of  both  nations  on  each  side — that  in 
absolute  veracity  and  likeness  to  life,  in  limiting  the  operation 
of  the  inner  consciousness  on  the  outward  observation  to 
strictly  artistic  scale,  Thackeray  excelled  Balzac  as  far  as  he 
fell  short  of  him  in  the  powers  of  the  seer  and  in  the  gigantic 
imagination  of  the  prophet.  But  the  relations  of  pupil  and 
master  in  at  least  some  degree  are  not,  I  think,  deniable. 

So  things  went  on  in  light  and  in  shade,  in  home-keeping 
and  in  travel,  in  debts  and  in  earnings,  but  always  in  work  of 
some  kind  or  another,  for  eighteen  years  from  the  turning- 
point  of  1829.  By  degrees,  as  he  gained  fame  and  ceased  to 
be  in  the  most  pressing  want  of  money,  Balzac  left  off  to  some 
extent,  though  never  entirely,  those  miscellaneous  writings — 
reviews  (including  puffs),  comic  or  general  sketches,  political 
diatribes,  "  physiologies  "  and  the  like — which,  with  his  dis- 
carded prefaces  and  much  other  interesting  matter,  were  at 
last,  not  many  years  ago,  included  in  four  stout  volumes  of 
the  Edition  D^nitive.  With  the  exception  of  the  Physiolo- 
gies (a  sort  of  short  satiric  analysis  of  this  or  that  class, 
character,  or  personage),  which  were  very  popular  in  th( 
reign  of  Louis  Philippe  in  France,  and  which  Albert  Smith 
and  others  introduced  into  England,  Balzac  did  not  do  any 
of  this  miscellaneous  work  extremely  well.  Very  shrewd  ob- 
servations are  to  be  found  in  his  reviews,  for  instance  his  in- 
dication, in  reviewing  La  Touche's  Fragoletta,  of  that  com- 
mon fault  of  ambitious  novels,  a  sort  of  woolly  and  "  un- 
graspable  "  looseness  of  construction  and  story,  which  con- 
stantly bewilders  the  reader  as  to  what  is  going  on.  But,  as 
a  rule,  he  was  thinking  too  much  of  his  own  work  and  his 
own  principles  of  working  to  enter  very  thoroughly  into  the 
work  of  others.  His  politics,  those  of  a  moderate  but  decided 
Royalist  and  Conservative,  were,  as  has  been  said,  intelligent 


HONORS  DE  BALZAC  ^3 

in  theory,  but  in  practice  a  little  distinguished  by  that  neg- 
lect of  actual  business  detail  which  has  been  noticed  in  his 
speculations. 

At  last,  in  the  summer  of  1847,  it  seemed  as  if  the  Rachel 
for  whom  he  had  served  nearly  if  not  quite  the  full  fourteen 
years  already,  and  whose  husband  had  long  been  out  of  the 
way,  would  at  last  grant  herself  to  him.  He  was  invited  to 
Vierzschovnia  in  the  Ukraine,  the  seat  of  Madame  Hanska, 
or  in  strictness  of  her  son-in-law.  Count  Georges  Mniszech; 
and  as  the  visit  was  apparently  for  no  restricted  period,  and 
Balzac's  pretensions  to  the  lady's  hand  were  notorious,  it 
might  have  seemed  that  he  was  as  good  as  accepted.  But 
to  assume  this  would  have  been  to  mistake  what  perhaps  the 
greatest  creation  of  Balzac's  great  English  contemporary 
and  counterpart  on  the  one  side,  as  Thackeray  was  his  con- 
temporary and  counterpart  on  the  other,  considered  to  be  the 
malignity  of  widows.  What  the  reasons  were  which  made 
Madame  Hanska  delay  so  long  in  doing  what  she  did  at  last, 
and  might  just  as  well,  it  would  seem,  have  done  years  before, 
is  not  certainly  known,  and  it  would  be  quite  unprofitable  to 
discuss  them.  But  it  was  on  the  8th  of  October  1847  that 
Balzac  first  wrote  to  his  sister  from  Vierzschovnia,  and  it 
was  not  till  the  14th  of  March  1850  that,  "  in  the  parish 
church  of  Saint  Barbara  at  Berditchef,  by  the  Count  Abbe 
Czarski,  representing  the  Bishop  of  Jitomir  [this  is  as  charac- 
teristic of  Balzac  in  one  way  as  what  follows  is  in  another] 
a  Madame  Eve  de  Balzac,  born  Countess  Rzevuska,  or  a  Ma- 
dame Honore  de  Balzac  or  a  Madame  de  Balzac  the  elder  " 
came  into  existence. 

It  does  not  appear  that  Balzac  was  exactly  unhappy  dur- 
ing this  huge  probation,  which  was  broken  by  one  short  visit 
to  Paris.  The  interest  of  uncertainty  was  probably  much 
for  his  ardent  and  unquiet  spirit,  and  though  he  did  very 
little  literary  work  for  him,  one  may  suspect  that  he  would 
not  have  done  very  much  if  he  had  stayed  at  Paris,  for  signs 
of  exhaustion,  not  of  genius  but  of  physical  power,  had  shown 
themselves  before  he  left  home.  But  it  is  not  unjust  or  cruel 
to  say  that  by  the  delay  "  Madame  Eve  de  Balzac  "  (her 
actual  baptismal  name  was  Evelina)  practically  killed  her 


24       *  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

husband.  These  winters  in  the  severe  climate  of  Russian 
Poland  were  absolutely  fatal  to  a  constitution,  and  especially 
to  lungs,  already  deeply  affected.  At  Vierzschovnia  itself  he 
had  illnesses,  from  which  he  narrowly  escaped  with  life,  before 
the  marriage ;  his  heart  broke  down  after  it ;  and  he  and  his 
wife  did  not  reach  Paris  till  the  end  of  May.  Less  than  three 
months  afterwards,  on  the  18th  of  August,  he  died,  having 
been  visited  on  the  very  day  of  his  death  in  the  paradise  of 
bric-a-brac  which  he  had  created  for  his  Eve  in  the  Rue 
Fortunee — a  name  too  provocative  of  Nemesis — by  Victor 
Hugo,  the  chief  maker  in  verse  as  he  himself  was  the  chief 
maker  in  prose  of  France.  He  was  buried  at  Pere  la  Chaise. 
The  after  fortunes  of  his  house  and  its  occupants  were  not 
happy :  but  they  do  not  concern  us. 

In  person  Balzac  was  a  typical  Frenchman,  as  indeed  he 
was  in  most  ways.  From  his  portraits  there  would  seem  to 
have  been  more  force  and  address  than  distinction  or  refine- 
ment in  his  appearance,  but,  as  has  been  already  observed, 
his  period  was  one  ungrateful  to  the  iconographer.  His  char- 
acter, not  as  a  writer  but  as  a  man,  must  occupy  us  a  little 
longer.  For  some  considerable  time — indeed  it  may  be  said 
until  the  publication  of  his  letters — it  was  not  very  favorably 
judged  on  the  whole.  We  may,  of  course,  dismiss  the  childish 
scandals  (arising,  as  usual,  from  clumsy  or  malevolent  misin- 
terpretation of  such  books  as  the  Physiologie  du  Mariage, 
the  Peau  de  Chagrin,  and  a  few  others)  which  gave  rise  to 
caricatures  of  him  such  as  that  of  which  we  read,  representing 
him  in  a  monk's  dress  at  a  table  covered  with  bottles  and  sup- 
porting a  young  person  on  his  knee,  the  whole  garnished  with 
the  epigraph:  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Cachee.  They  seem  to  have 
given  him,  personally,  a  very  unnecessary  annoyance,  and 
indeed  he  was  always  rather  sensitive  to  criticism.  This 
kind  of  stupid  libel  will  never  cease  to  be  devised  by  the  en- 
vious, swallowed  by  the  vulgar,  and  simply  neglected  by  the 
wise.  But  Balzac's  peculiarities,  both  of  life  and  of  work, 
lent  themselves  rather  fatally  to  a  subtler  misconstruction 
which  he  also  anticipated  and  tried  to  remove,  but  which  took 
a  far  stronger  hold.  He  was  represented- — and  in  the  absence 
of  any  intimate  male  friends  to  contradict  the  representation, 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  25 

it  was  certain  to  obtain  some  currency — as  in  his  artistic  per- 
son a  sardonic  libeler  of  mankind,  who  cared  only  to  take 
foibles  and  vices  for  his  subjects,  and  who  either  left  goodness 
and  virtue  out  of  sight  altogether,  or  represented  them  as  the 
qualities  of  fools.  In  private  life  he  was  held  up  as  at  the 
best  a  self-centered  egotist  who  cared  for  nothing  but  him- 
self and  his  own  work,  capable  of  interrupting  one  friend 
who  told  him  of  the  death  of  a  sister  by  a  suggestion  that 
they  should  change  the  subject  and  talk  of  "  something  real, 
of  Eugenie  Grandet,"  and  of  levying  a  fifty  per  cent,  com- 
mission on  another  who  had  written  a  critical  notice  of  his, 
Balzac's,  life  and  works. ^  With  the  first  of  these  charges  he 
himself,  on  diff*erent  occasions,  rather  vainly  endeavored  to 
grapple,  once  drawing  up  an  elaborate  list  of  his  virtuous 
and  vicious  women,  and  showing  that  the  former  outnumbered 
the  latter;  and,  again,  laboring  (with  that  curious  lack  of 
sense  of  humor  which  distinguishes  all  Frenchmen  but  a  very 
few,  and  distinguished  him  eminently)  to  show  that  though  no 
doubt  it  is  very  difficult  to  make  a  virtuous  person  interest- 
ing, he,  Honore  de  Balzac,  had  attempted  it,  and  succeeded 
in  it,  on  a  quite  surprising  number  of  occasions. 

The  fact  is  that  if  he  had  handled  this  last  matter  rather 
more  lightly  his  answer  would  have  been  a  sufficient  one,  and 
that  in  any  case  the  charge  is  not  worth  answering.  It  does 
not  lie  against  the  whole  of  his  work;  and  if  it  lay  as  con- 
clusively as  it  does  against  Swift's,  it  would  not  necessarily 
matter.  To  the  artist  in  analysis  as  opposed  to  the  romance- 
writer,  folly  always,  and  villainy  sometimes,  does  supply  a 
much  better  subject  than  virtuous  success,  and  if  he  makes 
his  fools  and  his  villains  lifelike  and  supplies  them  with  a 
fair  contrast  of  better  things,  there  is  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  He  will  not,  indeed,  be  a  Shakespeare,  or  a  Dante,  or 
even  a  Scott ;  but  we  may  be  very  well  satisfied  with  him  as  a 
Fielding,  a  Thackeray,  or  a  Balzac.    As  to  the  more  purely 

^Sandeau  and  Gautier,  the  victims  in  these  two  stories,  were  neither 
spiteful,  nor  mendacious,  nor  irrational,  so  they  are  probably  true.  The 
second  was  possibly  due  to  Balzac's  odd  notions  of  "  business  being  busi- 
ness." The  first,  \  have  quite  recently  seen  reason  to  think,  may  have 
been  a  sort  of  reminiscence  of  one  of  the  traits  in  Diderot's  extravagant 
encomium  on  Richardson. 


26  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

personal  matter  I  own  that  it  was  some  time  before  I  could 
persuade  myself  that  Balzac,  to  speak  familiarly,  was  a  much 
better  fellow  than  others,  and  I  myself,  had  been  accustomed 
to  think  him.  But  it  is  also  some  time  since  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  was  so,  and  my  conversion  is  not  to  be  at- 
tributed to  any  editorial  retainer.  His  education  in  a  law- 
yer's office,  the  accursed  advice  about  the  bonne  speculation, 
and  his  constant  straitenings  for  money,  will  account  for  his 
sometimes  looking  after  the  main  chance  rather  too  nar- 
rowly; and  as  for  the  Eugenie  Grandet  story  (even  if  the 
supposition  referred  to  in  a  note  above  be  fanciful)  it  re- 
quires no  great  stretch  of  charity  or  comprehension  to  see 
in  it  nothing  more  than  the  awkward,  very  easily  miscon- 
strued, but  not  necessarily  in  the  least  heartless  or  brutal 
attempt  of  a  rather  absent  and  very  much  self-centered  re- 
cluse absorbed  in  one  subject,  to  get  his  intei'locutor  as  well 
as  himself  out  of  painful  and  useless  dwelling  on  sorrowful 
matters.  Self-centered  and  self-absorbed  Balzac  no  doubt 
was ;  he  could  not  have  lived  his  life  or  produced  his  work  if 
he  had  been  anything  else.  And  it  must  be  remembered  that 
he  owed  extremely  little  to  others;  that  he  had  the  inde- 
pendence as  well  as  the  isolation  of  the  self-centered ;  that  he 
never  spunged  or  fawned  on  a  great  man,  or  wronged  others 
of  what  was  due  to  them.  The  only  really  unpleasant  thing 
about  him  that  I  know,  and  even  this  is  perhaps  due  to  igno- 
rance of  all  sides  of  the  matter,  is  a  slight  touch  of  snobbish- 
ness now  and  then,  especially  in  those  late  letters  from  Vierz- 
schovnia  to  Madame  de  Balzac  and  Madame  Surville,  in 
which,  while  inundating  his  mother  and  sister  with  commis- 
sions and  requests  for  service,  he  points  out  to  them  what 
great  people  the  Hanskas  and  Mniszechs  are,  what  infinite 
honor  and  profit  it  will  be  to  be  connected  with  them,  and 
how  desirable  it  is  to  keep  struggling  engineer  brothers-in- 
law  and  ne'er-do-well  brothers  in  the  colonies  out  of  sight  lest 
they  should  disgust  the  magnates. 

But  these  are  "  sma'  sums,  sma'  sums,"  as  Bailie  Jarvie 
says ;  and  smallness  of  any  kind  has,  whatever  it  may  have 
to  do  with  Balzac  the  man,  nothing  to  do  with  Balzac  the 
writer.     With  him  as  with  some  others,  but  not  as  with  the 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC  21 

larger  number,  the  sense  of  greatness  increases  the  longer 
and  the  more  fully  he  is  studied.  He  resembles,  I  think, 
Goethe  more  than  any  other  man  of  letters — certainly  more 
than  any  other  of  the  present  century — in  having  done  work 
which  is  very  frequently,  if  not  even  commonly,  faulty,  and 
in  yet  requiring  that  his  work  shall  be  known  as  a  whole. 
His  appeal  is  cumulative ;  it  repeats  itself  on  each  occasion 
with  a  slight  difference,  and  though  there  may  now  and  then 
be  the  same  faults  to  be  noticed,  they  are  almost  invariably 
accompanied,  not  merely  by  the  same,  but  by  fresh  merits. 

As  has  been  said  at  the  beginning  of  this  essay,  no  attempt 
will  be  made  in  it  to  give  that  running  survey  of  Balzac's  work 
which  is  always  useful  and  sometimes  indispensable  in  treat- 
ment of  the  kind.  That  will  be  administered  in  brief  intro- 
ductions to  the  separate  novels  of  which  each,  it  is  hoped, 
will  itself  be  cumulative  and  help  to  furnish  forth  the  full 
presentment  of  the  subject.  But  something  like  a  sum- 
ming up  of  that  subject  will  here  be  attempted,  first,  be- 
cause of  the  manifest  inconvenience  of  postponing  it,  and 
secondly,  because  it  is  really  desirable  that  in  embarking 
on  so  vast  a  voyage  the  reader  should  have  some  general 
chart — some  notes  of  the  soundings  and  log  generally  of  those 
who  have  gone  before  him. 

There  are  two  things,  then,  which  it  is  more  especially 
desirable  to  keep  constantly  before  one  in  reading  Balzac — 
two  things  which,  taken  together,  constitute  his  almost 
unique  value,  and  two  things  (I  think  it  may  be  added)  which 
not  a  few  critics  have  failed  to  take  together  in  him,  being 
under  the  impression  that  the  one  excludes  the  other,  and 
that  to  admit  the  other  is  tantamount  to  a  denial  of  the  one. 
These  two  things  are,  first,  an  immense  attention  to  detail, 
sometimes  observed,  sometimes  invented  or  imagined ;  and 
secondl}^  a  faculty  of  regarding  these  details  through  a 
mental  lens  or  arrangement  of  lenses  almost  peculiar  to  him- 
self, which  at  once  combines,  enlarges,  and  invests  them  with 
a  peculiar  magical  halo  or  mirage.  The  two  thousand  per- 
sonages of  the  Comedie  Humaine  are,  for  the  most  part, 
"  signaled,"  as  the  French  official  word  has  it,  marked  and 
denoted  by  the  minutest  traits  of  character,  gesture,  gait, 


28  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

» 
clothing,  abode,  what  not ;  the  transactions  recorded  are 
very  often  (more  often  indeed  than  not)  given  with  a  scrupu- 
lous and  microscopic  accuracy  of  reporting  which  no  detect- 
ive could  outdo.  Defoe  is  not  more  circumstantial  in  detail 
of  fact  than  Balzac ;  Richardson  is  hardly  more  prodigal  of 
character-stroke.  Yet  a  very  large  proportion  of  these  char- 
acters, of  these  circumstances,  are  evidently  things  invented 
or  imagined,  not  observed.  And  in  addition  to  this  the  artist's 
magic  glass,  his  Balzacian  speculum,  if  we  may  so  say  (for 
none  else  has  ever  had  it),  transforms  even  the  most  rigid 
observation  into  something  flickering  and  fanciful,  the  out- 
line as  of  shadows  on  the  wall,  not  the  precise  contour  of  etch- 
ing or  of  the  camera. 

It  is  curious,  but  not  unexampled,  that  both  Balzac  him- 
self when  he  struggled  in  argument  with  his  critics  and  those 
of  his  partisans  who  have  been  most  jealously  devoted  to  him, 
have  usually  tried  to  exalt  the  first  and  less  remarkable  of 
these  gifts  over  the  second  and  infinitely  more  remarkable. 
Balzac  protested  strenuously  against  the  use  of  the  word 
"  gigantesque  "  in  reference  to  his  work ;  and  of  course  it  is 
susceptible  of  an  unhandsome  innuendo.  But  if  we  leave  that 
innuendo  aside,  if  we  adopt  the  sane  reflection  that  "  gigan- 
tesque "  does  not  exclude  "  gigantic,"  or  assert  a  constant 
failure  of  greatness,  but  only  indicates  that  the  magnifying 
process  is  carried  on  with  a  certain  indiscriminateness,  we 
shall  find  none,  I  think,  which  so  thoroughly  well  describes 
him. 

The  effect  of  this  singular  combination  of  qualities,  ap- 
parently the  most  opposite,  may  be  partly  anticipated,  but 
not  quite.  It  results  occasionally  in  a  certain  shortcoming 
as  regards  verite  vraie,  absolute  artistic  truth  to  nature. 
Those  who  would  range  Balzac  in  point  of  such  artistic 
veracity  on  a  level  with  poetical  and  universal  realists  like 
Shakespeare  and  Dante,  or  prosaic  and  particular  realists 
like  Thackeray  and  Fielding,  seem  not  only  to  be  utterly 
wrong  but  to  pay  their  idol  the  worst  of  all  compliments,  that 
of  ignoring  his  own  special  qualifications.  The  province  of 
Balzac  may  not  be — I  do  not  think  it  is — identical,  much  less 
coextensive,  with  that  of  nature.    But  it  is  his  own — a  partly 


HONOEE  DE  BALZAC  29 

real,  partly  fantastic  region,  where  the  lights,  the  shades,  the 
dimensions,  and  the  physical  laws  are  slightly  different  from 
those  of  this  world  of  ours,  but  with  which,  owing  to  the 
things  it  has  in  common  with  that  world,  we  are  able  to  sym- 
pathize, which  we  can  traverse  and  comprehend.  Every  now 
and  then  the  artist  uses  his  observing  faculty  more,  and  his 
magnifying  and  (since  there  is  no  better  word)  distorting 
lens  less ;  every  now  and  then  he  reverses  the  proportion. 
Some  tastes  will  like  him  best  in  the  one  stage;  some  in  the 
other ;  the  happier  constituted  will  like  him  best  in  both. 
These  latter  will  decline  to  put  Eugenie  Grandet  above  the 
Peau  de  Cliagrin,  or  Le  Pere  Goriot  above  the  wonderful 
handful  of  tales  which  includes  La  Recherche  de  UAhsolu 
and  Le  Chef  d'CEuvre  Inconnu,  though  they  will  no  doubt 
recognize  that  even  in  the  two  first  named  members  of  these 
pairs  the  Balzacian  quality,  that  of  magnifying  and  render- 
ing grandiose,  is  present,  and  that  the  martyrdom  of 
Eugenie,  the  avarice  of  her  father,  the  blind  self-devotion 
of  Goriot  to  his  thankless  and  worthless  children,  would  not  be 
what  they  are  if  they  were  seen  through  a  perfectly  achro- 
matic and  normal  medium. 

This  specially  Balzacian  quality  Is,  I  think,  unique.  It 
is  like — it  may  almost  be  said  to  be — the  poetic  imagination, 
present  in  magnificent  volume  and  degree,  but  in  some  mirac- 
ulous way  deprived  and  sterilized  of  the  specially  poetical 
quality.  By  this  I  do  not  of  course  mean  that  Balzac  did  not 
write  in  verse:  we  have  a  few  verses  of  his,  and  they  are 
pretty  bad,  but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  difference 
between  Balzac  and  a  great  poet  lies  not  in  the  fact  that  the 
one  fills  the  whole  page  with  printed  words,  and  the  other  only 
a  part  of  it — but  in  something  else.  If  I  could  put  that 
something  else  into  distinct  words  I  should  therein  attain  the 
philosopher's  stone,  the  elixir  of  life,  the  primum  mobile,  the 
grand  arcanum,  not  merely  of  criticism  but  of  all  things.  It 
might  be  possible  to  coast  about  it,  to  hint  at  it,  by  adumbra- 
tions and  in  consequences.  But  it  is  better  and  really  more 
helpful  to  face  the  difficulty  boldly,  and  to  say  that  Balzac, 
approaching  a  great  poet  nearer  perhaps  than  any  other 
prose  writer  in  any  language,  is  distinguished  from  one  by 


80  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

the  absence  of  the  very  last  touch,  the  finally  constituting 
quiddity,  which  makes  a  great  poet  different  from  Balzac. 

Now,  when  we  make  this  comparison,  it  is  of  the  first  in- 
terest to  remember — and  it  is  one  of  the  uses  of  the  compari- 
son, that  it  suggests  the  remembrance  of  the  fact — that  the 
great  poets  have  usually  been  themselves  extremely  exact  ob- 
servers of  detail.  It  has  not  made  them  great  poets  ;  but  they 
would  not  be  great  poets  without  it.  And  when  Eugenie 
Grandet  starts  from  le  petit  banc  de  bois  at  the  reference  to 
it  in  her  scoundrelly  cousin's  letter  (to  take  only  one  instance 
out  of  a  thousand),  we  see  in  Balzac  the  same  observation, 
subject  to  the  limitation  just  mentioned,  that  we  see  in  Dante 
and  Shakespeare,  in  Chaucer  and  Tennyson.  But  the  great 
poets  do  not  as  a  rule  accumulate  detail.  Balzac  does,  and 
from  his  very  accumulation  he  manages  to  derive  that  sin- 
gular gigantesque  vagueness — differing  from  the  poetic 
vague,  but  ranking  next  to  it — which  I  have  here  ventured 
to  note  as  his  distinguishing  quality.  He  bewilders  us  a  very 
little  by  it,  and  he  gives  us  the  impression  that  he  has  slightly 
bewildered  himself.  But  the  compensations  of  the  bewilder- 
ment are  large. 

For  in  this  labyrinth  and  whirl  of  things,  in  this  heat  and 
hurry  of  observation  and  imagination,  the  special  intoxica- 
tion of  Balzac  consists.  Every  great  artist  has  his  own 
means  of  producing  this  intoxication,  and  it  differs  in  result 
like  the  stimulus  of  beauty  or  of  wine.  Those  persons  who 
are  unfortunate  enough  to  see  in  Balzac  little  or  nothing  but 
an  ingenious  piler-up  of  careful  strokes — a  man  of  science 
taking  his  human  documents  and  classing  them  after  an  or- 
derly fashion  in  portfolio  and  deed-box — must  miss  this  in- 
toxication altogether.  It  is  much  more  agreeable  as  well  as 
much  more  accurate  to  see  in  the  manufacture  of  the  Comedie 
the  process  of  a  Cyclopean  workshop — the  bustle,  the  hurry, 
the  glare  and  shadow,  the  steam  and  sparks  of  Vulcanian 
forging.  The  results,  it  is  true,  are  by  no  means  confused 
or  disorderly — neither  were  those  of  the  forges  that  worked 
under  Lipari — ^but  there  certainly  went  much  more  to  them 
than  the  dainty  fingering  of  a  literary  fretwork-maker  or  the 
dull  rummagings  of  a  realist  a  la  Zola. 


HONOKE  DE  BALZAC  31 

In  part  no  doubt,  and  in  great  part,  the  work  of  Balzac 
is  dream-stuff  rather  than  Hfe-stuff,  and  it  is  all  the  better 
for  that.  What  is  better  than  dreams?  But  the  coherence 
of  his  visions,  their  bulk,  their  solidity,  the  way  in  which  they 
return  to  us  and  we  return  to  them,  make  them  such  dream- 
stuff  as  there  is  all  too  little  of  in  this  world.  If  it  is  true 
that  evil  on  the  whole  predominates  over  good  in  the  vision 
of  this  "  Voyant,"  as  Philarete  Chasles  so  justly  called  him 
(and  I  think  it  does,  though  not  to  the  same  extent  as  I  once 
thought),  two  very  respectable,  and  in  one  case  very  large, 
though  somewhat  opposed  di^^sions  of  mankind,  the  philo- 
sophic pessimist  and  the  convinced  and  consistent  Christian 
believer,  will  tell  us  that  this  is  at  least  not  one  of  the  points 
in  which  it  is  unfaithful  to  life.  If  the  author  is  closer  and 
more  faithful  in  his  study  of  meanness  and  vice  than  in  his 
studies  of  nobility  and  ^^rtue,  the  blame  is  due  at  least  as 
much  to  his  models  as  to  himself.  If,  as  I  fear  must  be  con- 
fessed, he  has  seldom  succeeded  in  combining  a  really  passion- 
ate with  a  really  noble  conception  of  love,  very  few  of  his 
countrymen  have  been  more  fortunate  in  that  respect.  If  in 
some  of  his  types — his  journalists,  his  married  women,  and 
others — he  seems  to  have  sacrificed  to  conventions,  let  us 
remember  that  those  who  know  attribute  to  his  conventions 
such  a  powerful  if  not  altogether  such  a  holy  influence  that 
two  generations  of  the  people  he  painted  have  actually  lived 
more  and  more  up  to  his  painting  of  them. 

And  last  of  all,  but  also  greatest,  has  to  be  considered  the 
immensity  of  his  imaginative  achievement,  the  huge  space 
that  he  has  filled  for  us  with  ^-ivid  creation,  the  range  of 
amusement,  of  instruction,  of  (after  a  fashion)  edification 
which  he  has  thrown  open  for  us  to  walk  in.  It  is  possible 
that  he  himself  and  others  more  or  less  well-meaningly, 
though  more  or  less  maladroitly,  following  his  lead,  may  have 
exaggerated  the  coherence  and  the  architectural  design  of 
the  Comedie.  But  it  has  coherence  and  it  has  design;  nor 
shall  we  find  an\i:hing  exactly  to  parallel  it.  In  mere  bulk 
the  Comedie  probably,  if  not  certainly,  exceeds  the  produc- 
tion of  any  novelist  of  the  first  class  in  any  kind  of  fiction 
except  Dumas,  and  with  Dumas,  for  various  and  well-known 


82  HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

reasons,  there  is  no  possibility  of  comparing  it.  All  others 
yield  in  bulk ;  all  in  a  certain  concentration  and  intensity ; 
none  even  aims  at  anything  like  the  same  system  and  com- 
pleteness. It  must  be  remembered  that  owing  to  shortness 
of  life,  lateness  of  beginning,  and  the  diversion  of  the  author 
to  other  work,  the  Comedie  is  the  production,  and  not  the 
sole  production,  of  some  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  at  most. 
Not  a  volume  of  it,  for  all  that  failure  to  reach  the  com- 
pletest  perfection  in  form  and  style  which  has  been  acknowl- 
edged, can  be  accused  of  tliinness,  of  scamped  work,  of  mean 
repetition,  of  mere  cobbling  up.  Every  one  bears  the  marks 
of  steady  and  ferocious  labor,  as  well  as  of  the  genius  which 
had  at  last  come  where  it  had  been  so  earnestly  called  and  had 
never  gone  away  again.  It  is  possible  to  overpraise  Balzac 
in  parts  or  to  mispraise  him  as  a  whole.  But  so  long  as  in- 
appropriate and  superfluous  comparisons  are  avoided  and  as 
his  own  excellence  is  recognized  and  appreciated,  it  is  scarcely 
possible  to  overestimate  that  excellence  in  itself  and  for  itself. 
He  stands  alone ;  even  with  Dickens,  who  is  his  nearest  an- 
alogue, he  shows  far  more  points  of  difference  than  of  like- 
ness. His  vastness  of  bulk  is  not  more  remarkable  than  his 
peculiarity  of  quaHty ;  and  when  these  two  things  coincide  in 
literature  or  elsewhere,  then  that  in  which  they  coincide  may 
be  called,  and  must  be  called,  Great,  without  hesitation  and 
without  reserve. 

George  Saintsbury. 


COUSIN  PONS 


PREFACE 

One  of  the  last  and  largest  of  Balzac's  great  works — 
the  very  last  of  them,  if  we  except  La  Cousine  Bette,  to 
which  it  is  pendant  and  contrast — Le  Cousin  Pons  has  always 
united  suffrages  from  very  different  classes  of  admirers.  In 
the  first  place,  it  is  not  "  disagreeable,"  as  the  common 
euphemism  has  it,  and  as  La  Cousine  Bette  certainly  is.  In 
the  second,  it  cannot  be  accused  of  being  a  berquinade,  as 
those  who  like  Balzac  best  when  he  is  doing  moral  rag-picking 
are  apt  to  describe  books  like  Le  Medecin  de  Campagne  and 
Le  Lys  dans  la  Vallee,  if  not  even  like  Eugenie  Grandet. 
It  has  a  considerable  variety  of  interest;  its  central  figure 
is  curiously  pathetic  and  attractive,  even  though  the  curse 
of  something  like  folly,  which  so  often  attends  Balzac's  good 
characters,  may  a  little  weigh  on  him.  It  would  be  a  book 
of  exceptional  charm  even  if  it  were  anonymous,  or  if  we 
knew  no  more  about  the  author  than  we  know  about  Shakes- 
peare. 

As  it  happens,  however,  Le  Cousin  Pons  has  other  attrac- 
tions than  this.  In  the  first  place,  Balzac  is  always  great — 
perhaps  he  is  at  his  greatest — in  depicting  a  mania,  a 
passion,  whether  the  subject  be  pleasure  or  gold-hunger  or 
parental  affection.  Pons  has  two  manias,  and  the  one  does 
not  interfere  with,  but  rather  helps,  the  other.  But  this 
would  be  nothing  if  it  were  not  that  his  chief  mania,  his 
ruling  passion,  is  one  of  Balzac's  own.  For,  as  we  have 
often  had  occasion  to  notice,  Balzac  is  not  by  any  means 
one  of  the  great  impersonal  artists.  He  can  do  many  things ; 
but  he  is  never  at  his  best  in  doing  any  unless  his  own  per- 
sonal interests,  his  likings  and  hatreds,  his  sufferings  and 
enjoyments,  are  concerned.  He  was  a  kind  of  actor-manager 
in  his  Comedie  Humaine;  and  perhaps,  like  other  actor- 
managers,  he  took  rather  disproportionate  care  of  the  parts 
which  he  played  himself. 

Now,  he  was  even  more  desperate  as  a  collector  and  fancier 
of  bibelots  than  he  was  as  a  speculator;  and  while  the  one 

iii 


iv  PREFACE 

mania  was  nearly  as  responsible  for  his  pecuniary  troubles 
and  his  need  to  overwork  himself  as  the  other,  it  certainly 
gave  him  more  constant  and  more  comparatively  harmless 
satisfactions.  His  connoisseurship  has,  of  course,  been 
questioned — one  connoisseur  would  be  nothing  if  he  did  not 
question  the  competence  of  another,  if  not  of  all  others. 
It  seems  certain  that  Balzac  frequently  bought  things  for 
what  they  were  not ;  and  probable  that  his  own  acquisitions 
went,  in  his  own  eyes,  through  that  succession  of  stages 
which  Charles  Lamb  (a  sort  of  Cousin  Pons  in  his  way  too) 
described  inimitably.  His  pictures,  like  John  Lamb's,  were 
apt  to  begin  as  Raphaels,  and  end  as  Carlo  Marattis.  Balzac 
too,  like  Pons,  was  even  more  addicted  to  bric-a-brac  than 
to  art  proper;  and  after  many  vicissitudes,  he  and  Mme. 
Hanska  seem  to  have  succeeded  in  getting  together  a  very 
considerable,  if  also  a  very  miscellaneous  and  unequal,  collec- 
tion in  the  house  in  the  Rue  du  Paradis,  the  contents  of  which 
were  dispersed  in  part  (though,  I  believe,  the  Rothschild 
who  bought  it,  bought  most  of  them  too)  not  many  years 
ago.  Pons,  indeed,  was  too  poor,  and  probably  too  queer, 
to  indulge  in  one  fancy  which  Balzac  had,  and  which,  I 
think,  all  collectors  of  the  nobler  and  more  poetic  class  have, 
though  this  number  may  not  be  large.  Balzac  liked  to  have 
new  beautiful  things  as  well  as  old — ^to  have  beautiful  things 
made  for  him.  He  was  an  unwearied  customer,  though  not 
an  uncomplaining  one,  of  the  great  jeweler  Froment  Meurice, 
whose  tarr'.ness  in  carrying  out  his  behests  he  pathetically 
upbraids  in  more  than  one  extant  letter. 

Therefore,  Balzac  "  did  more  than  sjmipathize,  he  felt  " 
— as  it  has  been  well  put — with  Pons  in  the  bric-a-brac 
matter;  and  it  would  appear  that  he  did  so  likewise  in  that 
of  music,  though  we  have  rather  less  direct  evidence.  This 
other  sympathy  has  resulted  in  the  addition  to  Pons  himself 
of  the  figure  of  Schmucke,  a  minor  and  more  parochial  figure, 
but  good  in  itself,  and  very  much  appreciated,  I  believe,  by 
fellow  melomanes . 

It  is  with  even  more  than  his  usual  art  that  Balzac  has 
surrounded  these  two  originals — these  "  humorists,"  as  our 
own  ancestors  would  have  called  them — with  figures  much, 


PREFACE  V 

very  much,  more  of  the  ordinary  world  than  themselves.  The 
grasping  worldliness  of  the  parvenu  family  of  Camusot  in 
one  degree,  and  the  greed  of  the  portress,  Mme.  Cibot,  on 
the  other,  are  admirably  represented;  the  latter,  in  par- 
ticular, must  always  hold  a  very  high  place  among  Balzac's 
greatest  successes.  She  is,  indeed,  a  sort  of  companion 
sketch  to  Cousine  Bette  herself  in  a  still  lower  rank  of  life, 
representing  the  diabolical  in  woman ;  and  perhaps  we  should 
not  wrong  the  author's  intentions  if  we  suspected  that  Diane 
de  Maufrigneuse  has  some  claims  to  make  up  the  trio  in  a 
sphere  even  more  above  Lisbeth's  than  Lisbeth's  is  above 
Mme.  Cibot's  own. 

Different  opinions  have  been  held  of  the  actual  "  bric-a- 
bracery "  of  this  piece — that  is  to  say,  not  of  Balzac's 
competence  in  the  matter,  but  of  the  artistic  value  of  his 
introduction  of  it.  Perhaps  his  enthusiasm  does  a  little 
run  away  with  him;  perhaps  he  gives  us  a  little  too  much 
of  it,  and  avails  himself  too  freely  of  the  license,  at  least 
of  the  temptation,  to  digress  which  the  introduction  of  such 
persons  as  Elie  Magus  affords.  And  it  is  also  open  to  any- 
one to  say  that  the  climax,  or  what  is  in  effect  the  climax,  is 
introduced  somewhat  too  soon;  that  the  struggle,  first  over 
the  body  and  then  over  the  property  of  Patroclus-Pons,  is 
inordinately  spun  out ;  and  that,  even  granting  the  author's 
mania,  he  might  have  utilized  it  better  by  giving  us  more 
of  the  harmless  and  ill-treated  cousin's  happy  hunts,  and 
less  of  the  disputes  over  his  accumulated  quarry.  This, 
however,  means  simply  the  old,  and  generally  rather  imperti- 
nent, suggestion  to  the  artist  that  he  shall  do  with  his  art 
something  different  from  that  which  he  has  himself  chosen 
to  do.  It  is,  or  should  be,  sufficient  that  Le  Cousin  Pons 
is  a  very  agreeable  book,  more  pathetic,  if  less  "  grimy," 
than  its  companion,  full  of  its  author's  idiosyncrasy,  and 
characteristic  of  his  genius.  It  may  not  be  uninteresting  to 
add  that  Le  Cousin  Pons  was  originally  called  Les  Deux 
Musiciens,  or  Le  Parasite,  and  that  the  change,  which  is  a 
great  improvement,  was  due  to  the  instances  of  Mme.  Hanska. 

(For  bibliography,  see  the  Preface  to  La  Cousine  Bette.) 

G.  S. 


Fraisier  catches  his  first  glimpse  of  Pons's  will 


COUSIN  PONS 

TOWARDS  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  one  October 
day  in  the  year  1844,  a  man  of  sixty  or  thereabouts, 
whom  anybody  might  have  credited  with  more  than  his  actual 
age,  was  walking  along  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  with  his 
head  bent  down,  as  if  he  were  tracking  someone.  There  was 
a  smug  expression  about  the  mouth — he  looked  like  a 
merchant  who  has  just  done  a  good  stroke  of  business,  or  a 
bachelor  emerging  from  a  boudoir  in  the  best  of  humors  with 
himself;  and  in  Paris  this  is  the  highest  degree  of  self-satis- 
faction ever  registered  by  a  human  countenance. 

As  soon  as  the  elderly  person  appeared  in  the  distance,  a 
smile  broke  out  over  the  faces  of  the  frequenters  of  the 
Boulevard,  who  daily,  from  their  chairs,  watch  the  passers-by, 
and  indulge  in  the  agreeable  pastime  of  analyzing  thera. 
That  smile  is  peculiar  to  Parisians ;  it  says  so  many  things — 
ironical,  quizzical,  pitying;  but  nothing  save  the  rarest  of 
human  curiosities  can  summon  that  look  of  interest  to  the 
faces  of  Parisians,  sated  as  they  are  with  every  possible  sight. 

A  saying  recorded  of  Hyacinthe,  an  actor  celebrated  for 
his  repartees,  will  explain  the  archjeological  value  of  the  old 
gentleman,  and  the  smile  repeated  like  an  echo  by  all  eyes. 
Somebody  once  asked  Hyacinthe  where  the  hats  were  made 
that  set  the  house  in  a  roar  as  soon  as  he  appeared.  "  I  don't 
have  them  made,"  he  said ;  "  I  keep  them !  "  So  also  among 
the  million  actors  who  make  up  the  great  troupe  of  Paris, 
there  are  unconscious  Hyacinthes  who  "  keep  "  all  the  absurd 
freaks  of  vanished  fashions  upon  their  backs ;  and  the  appari- 
tion of  some  bygone  decade  will  startle  you  into  laughter  as 
you  walk  the  streets  in  bitterness  of  soul  over  the  treason  of 
one  who  was  your  friend  in  the  past. 

In  some  respects  the  passer-by  adhered  so  faithfully  to  the 
fashions  of  the  year  1806,  that  he  was  not  so  much  a  bur- 
lesque caricature  as  a  reproduction  of  the  Empire  period.  To 
an  observer,  accuracy  of  detail  in  a  revival  of  this  sort  is  ex- 
tremely valuable,  but  accuracy  of  detail,  to  be  properly  ap- 


2  COUSIN  PONS 

predated,  demands  the  critical  attention  of  an  expert  flaneur^ 
while  the  man  in  the  street  who  raises  a  laugh  as  soon  as  he 
comes  in  sight  is  bound  to  be  one  of  those  outrageous  exhibi- 
tions which  stare  jou  in  the  face,  as  the  saying  goes,  and  pro- 
duce the  kind  of  effect  which  an  actor  tries  to  secure  for  the 
success  of  his  entry.  The  elderly  person,  a  thin,  spare  man, 
wore  a  nut-brown  spencer  over  a  coat  of  uncertain  green, 
with  white  metal  buttons.  A  man  in  a  spencer  in  the  year 
eighteen  hundred  and  forty-four !  it  was  as  if  Napoleon  him- 
self had  vouchsafed  to  come  to  life  again  for  a  couple  of 
hours. 

The  spencer,  as  its  name  indicates,  was  the  invention  of  an 
English  lord,  vain,  doubtless,  of  his  handsome  shape.  Some 
time  before  the  Peace  of  Amiens,  this  nobleman  solved  the 
problem  of  covering  the  bust  without  destroying  the  outlines 
of  the  figure  and  encumbering  the  person  with  the  hideous 
boxcoat,  now  finishing  its  career  on  the  backs  of  aged  hack- 
ney cabmen ;  but,  elegant  figures  being  in  the  minority,  the 
success  of  the  spencer  was  short-lived  in  France,  English 
though  it  was. 

At  sight  of  the  spencer,  men  of  forty  or  fifty  mentally 
invested  the  wearer  with  top-boots,  pistachio-colored  kersey- 
mere small  clothes  adorned  with  a  knot  of  ribbon ;  and  beheld 
themselves  in  the  costumes  of  their  youth.  Elderly  ladies 
thought  of  former  conquests ;  but  the  younger  men  were  ask- 
ing each  other  why  the  aged  Alcibiades  had  cut  off  the  skirts 
of  his  overcoat.  The  rest  of  the  costume  was  so  much  in 
keeping  with  the  spencer,  that  you  would  not  have  hesitated 
to  call  the  wearer  "  an  Empire  man,"  just  as  you  call  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  furniture  "  Empire  furniture  " ;  yet  the  new- 
comer only  symbolized  the  Empire  for  those  who  had  known 
that  great  and  magnificent  epoch  at  any  rate  de  visu,  for  a 
certain  accuracy  of  memory  was  needed  for  the  full  apprecia- 
tion of  the  costume,  and  even  now  the  Empire  is  so  far  away 
that  not  every  one  of  us  can  picture  it  in  its  Gallo-Grecian 
reality. 

The  stranger's  hat,  for  instance,  tipped  to  the  back  of  his 
head  so  as  to  leave  almost  the  whole  forehead  bare,  recalled  a 
certain  jaunty  air,  with  which  civilians  and  ofncials  attempted 


COUSIN  PONS  3 

to  swagger  it  with  military  men ;  but  the  hat  itself  was  a 
shocking  specimen  of  the  fifteen-franc  variety.  Constant 
friction  with  a  pair  of  enormous  ears  had  left  marks  which 
no  brush  could  efface  from  the  underside  of  the  brim;  the 
silk  tissue  (as  usual)  fitted  badly  over  the  cardboard  founda- 
tion, and  hung  in  wrinkles  here  and  there ;  and  some  skin- 
disease  (apparently)  had  attacked  the  nap  in  spite  of  the 
hand  which  rubbed  it  down  of  a  morning. 

Beneath  the  hat,  which  seemed  ready  to  drop  off  at  any 
moment,  lay  an  expanse  of  countenance  grotesque  and  droll, 
as  the  faces  which  the  Chinese  alone  of  all  people  can  imagine 
for  their  quaint  curiosities.  The  broad  visage  was  as  full  of 
holes  as  a  colander,  honey-combed  with  the  shadows  of  the 
dints,  hollowed  out  like  a  Roman  mask.  It  set  all  the  laws  of 
anatomy  at  defiance.  Close  inspection  failed  to  detect  the 
substructure.  Where  you  expected  to  find  a  bone,  you  dis- 
covered a  layer  of  cartilaginous  tissue,  and  the  hollows  of  an 
ordinary  human  face  were  here  filled  out  with  flabby  bosses. 
A  pair  of  gray  eyes,  red-rimmed  and  lashless,  looked  for- 
lornly out  of  a  countenance  which  was  flattened  something 
after  the  fashion  of  a  pumpkin,  and  surmounted  by  a  Don 
Quixote  nose  that  rose  out  of  it  like  a  monolith  above  a  plain. 
It  was  the  kind  of  nose,  as  Cervantes  must  surely  have  ex- 
plained somewhere,  which  denotes  an  inborn  enthusiasm  for  all 
things  great,  a  tendency  which  is  apt  to  degenerate  into 
credulity. 

And  yet,  though  the  man's  ugliness  was  something  almost 
ludicrous,  it  aroused  not  the  shghtest  inclination  to  laugh. 
The  exceeding  melancholy  which  found  an  outlet  in  the  poor 
man's  faded  eyes  reached  the  mocker  himself  and  froze  the 
gibes  on  his  lips ;  for  all  at  once  the  thought  arose  that  this 
was  a  human  creature  to  whom  Nature  had  forbidden  any 
expression  of  love  or  tenderness,  since  such  expression  could 
only  be  painful  or  ridiculous  to  the  woman  he  loved.  In  the 
presence  of  such  misfortune  a  Frenchman  is  silent ;  to  him  it 
seems  the  most  cruel  of  all  afflictions — to  be  unable  to  please ! 

The  man  so  ill-favored  was  dressed  after  the  fashion  of 
shabby  gentility,  a  fashion  which  the  rich  not  seldom  try  to 
copy.     He  wore  low   shoes  beneath  gaiters  of  the   pattern 


4  COUSIN  PONS 

worn  by  the  Imperial  Guard,  doubtless  for  the  sake  of  econ- 
omy, because  they  kept  the  socks  clean.  The  rusty  tinge 
of  his  black  breeches,  like  the  cut  and  the  white  or  shiny  line 
of  the  creases,  assigned  the  date  of  the  purchase  some  three 
years  back.  The  roomy  garments  failed  to  disguise  the  lean 
proportions  of  the  wearer,  due  apparently  rather  to  con- 
stitution than  to  a  Pythagorean  regimen,  for  the  worthy  man 
was  endowed  with  thick  lips  and  a  sensual  mouth ;  and  when 
he  smiled,  displayed  a  set  of  white  teeth  which  would  have 
done  credit  to  a  shark. 

A  shawl-waistcoat,  likewise  of  black  cloth,  was  supple- 
mented by  a  white  under-waistcoat,  and  yet  again  beneath  this 
gleamed  the  edge  of  a  red  knitted  under- jacket,  to  put  you 
in  mind  of  Garat's  five  waistcoats.  A  huge  white  muslin 
stock  with  a  conspicuous  bow,  invented  by  some  exquisite  to 
charm  "  the  charming  sex  "  in  1809,  projected  so  far  above 
its  wearer's  chin  that  the  lower  part  of  his  face  was  lost,  as  it 
were,  in  a  muslin  abyss.  A  silk  watch-guard,  plaited  to  re- 
semble the  keepsakes  made  of  hair,  meandered  down  his  shirt- 
front  and  secured  his  watch  from  improbable  theft.  The 
greenish  coat,  though  older  by  some  three  years  than  the 
breeches,  was  remarkably  neat ;  the  black  velvet  collar  and 
shining  metal  buttons,  recently  renewed,  told  of  carefulness 
which  descended  even  to  trifles. 

The  particular  manner  of  fixing  the  hat  on  the  occiput, 
the  triple  waistcoat,  the  vast  cravat  engulfing  the  chin,  the 
gaiters,  the  metal  buttons  on  the  greenish  coat, — all  these 
reminiscences  of  Imperial  fashions  were  blended  with  a  sort 
of  afterwaft  and  lingering  perfume  of  the  coquetry  of  the 
Incroyable — with  an  indescribable  finical  something  in  the 
folds  of  the  garments,  a  certain  air  of  stiffness  and  correctness 
in  the  demeanor  that  smacked  of  the  school  of  David,  that  re- 
called Jacob's  spindle-legged  furniture. 

At  first  sight,  moreover,  you  set  him  down  either  for  the 
gentleman  by  birth  fallen  a  victim  to  some  degrading  habit, 
or  for  the  man  of  small  independent  means  whose  expenses 
are  calculated  to  such  a  nicety  that  the  breakage  of  a  window- 
pane,  a  rent  in  a  coat,  or  a  visit  from  the  philanthropic  pest 
who  asks  you   for  subscriptions  to  a   charity,   absorbs   the 


COUSIN  PONS  5 

whole  of  a  month's  little  surplus  of  pocket-money.  If  you 
had  seen  him  that  afternoon,  you  would  have  wondered  how 
that  grotesque  face  came  to  be  lighted  up  with  a  smile; 
usually,  sui'ely,  it  must  have  worn  the  dispirited,  passive  look 
of  the  obscure  toiler  condemned  to  labor  without  ceasing  for 
the  barest  necessaries  of  life.  Yet  when  you  noticed  that  the 
odd-looking  old  man  was  carrying  some  object  (evidently 
precious)  in  his  right  hand  with  a  mother's  care;  concealing 
it  under  the  skirts  of  his  coat  to  keep  it  from  collisions  in  the 
crowd,  and  still  more,  when  you  remarked  that  important  air 
always  assumed  by  an  idler  when  intrusted  with  a  commission, 
you  would  have  suspected  him  of  recovering  some  piece  of  lost 
property,  some  modern  equivalent  of  the  marquise's  poodle; 
you  would  have  recognized  the  assiduous  gallantry  of  the 
"  man  of  the  Empire  "  returning  in  triumph  from  his  mission 
to  some  charming  woman  of  sixty,  reluctant  as  yet  to  dispense 
with  the  daily  visit  of  her  elderly  attentif. 

In  Paris  only  among  great  cities  will  you  see  such  spec- 
tacles as  this;  for  of  her  boulevards  Paris  makes  a  stage 
where  a  never-ending  drama  is  played  gratuitously  by  the 
French  nation  in  the  interests  of  Art. 

In  spite  of  the  rashly  assumed  spencer,  you  would  scarcely 
have  thought,  after  a  glance  at  the  contours  of  the  man's 
bony  frame,  that  this  was  an  artist — that  conventional  type 
which  is  privileged,  in  something  the  same  way  as  a  Paris 
gamin,  to  represent  riotous  living  to  the  bourgeois  and  phi- 
listine  mind,  the  most  mirific  joviaHty,  in  short  (to  use  the  old 
Rabelaisian  word  newly  taken  into  use).  Yet,  this  elderly 
person  had  once  taken  the  medal  and  the  traveling  scholar- 
ship ;  he  had  composed  the  first  cantata  crowned  by  the  In- 
stitut  at  the  time  of  the  re-establishment  of  the  Academie  de 
Rome;  he  was  M.  Sylvain  Pons,  in  fact — M.  Sylvain  Pons, 
whose  name  appears  on  the  covers  of  well-known  sentimental 
songs  trilled  by  our  mothers,  to  say  nothing  of  a  couple  of 
operas,  played  in  1815  and  1816,  and  diverse  unpublished 
scores.  The  worthy  soul  was  now  ending  his  days  as  the 
conductor  of  an  orchestra  in  a  boulevard  theater,  and  a  music 
master  in  several  young  ladies'  boarding-schools,  a  post  for 
which  his  face  particularly  recommended  him.     He  was  en- 


6  COUSIN  PONS 

tirely  dependent  uppn  his  earnings.  Running  about  to  give 
private  lessons  at  his  age ! — Think  of  it.  How  many  a  mys- 
tery lies  in  that  unromantic  situation ! 

But  the  last  man  to  wear  the  spencer  carried  something 
else  about  him  besides  his  Empire  associations:  a  warning 
and  a  lesson  was  written  large  over  that  triple  waistcoat. 
Wherever  he  went,  he  exhibited,  without  fee  or  charge,  one  of 
the  many  victims  of  the  fatal  system  of  competition  which 
still  prevails  in  France  in  spite  of  a  century  of  trial  without 
result ;  for  Poisson  de  Marigny,  brother  of  the  Pompadour 
and  Director  of  Fine  Arts,  somewhere  about  1746  invented 
this  method  of  applying  pressure  to  the  brain.  That  was  a 
hundred  years  ago.  Try  if  you  can  count  upon  your  fingers 
the  men  of  genius  among  the  prizemen  of  those  hundred  years. 

In  the  first  place,  no  deliberate  effort  of  schoolmaster  or 
administrator  can  replace  the  miracles  of  chance  which  pro- 
duce great  men :  of  all  the  mysteries  of  generation,  this  most 
defies  the  ambitious  modern  scientific  investigator.  In  the 
second — the  ancient  Egyptians  (we  are  told)  invented  in- 
cubator-stoves for  hatching  eggs ;  what  would  be  thought  of 
Egyptians  who  should  neglect  to  fill  the  beaks  of  the  callow 
fledglings?  Yet  this  is  precisely  what  France  is  doing.  She 
does  her 'utmost  to  produce  artists  by  the  artificial  heat  of 
competitive  examination  ;  but,  the  sculptor,  painter,  engraver, 
or  musician  once  turned  out  by  this  mechanical  process,  she 
no  more  troubles  herself  about  them  and  their  fate  than 
the  dandy  cares  for  yesterday's  flower  in  his  button-hole. 
And  so  it  happens  that  the  really  great  man  is  a  Greuze,  a 
Watteau,  a  Felicien  David,  a  Pagnesi,  a  Gericault,  a  De- 
camps, an  Auber,  a  David  d'Angers,  an  Eugene  Delacroix,  or 
a  Meissonier — artists  who  take  but  little  heed  of  grands  prix, 
and  spring  up  in  the  open  field  under  the  rays  of  that  in- 
visible sun  called  Vocation. 

To  resume.  The  Government  sent  Sylvain  Pons  to  Rome 
to  make  a  great  musician  of  himself;  and  in  Rome  Sylvain 
Pons  acquired  a  taste  for  the  antique  and  works  of  art.  He 
became  an  admirable  judge  of  those  masterpieces  of  the  brain 
and  hand  which  are  summed  up  by  the  useful  neologism  "  bric- 
a-brac  " ;  and  when  the  child  of  Euterpe  returned  to  Paris 


COUSIN  PONS  T 

somewhere  about  the  year  1810,  it  was  in  the  character  of  a 
rabid  collector,  loaded  with  pictures,  statuettes,  frames,  wood- 
carving,  ivories,  enamels,  porcelains,  and  the  like.  He  had 
sunk  the  greater  part  of  his  patrimony  not  so  much  in  the 
purchases  themselves  as  on  the  expenses  of  transit ;  and  every 
penny  inherited  from  his  mother  had  been  spent  in  the  course 
of  a  three  years'  travel  in  Italy  after  the  residence  in  Rome 
came  to  an  end.  He  had  seen  Venice,  Milan,  Florence, 
Bologna,  and  Naples  leisurely,  as  he  wished  to  see  them,  as  a 
dreamer  of  dreams,  and  a  philosopher ;  careless  of  the  future, 
for  an  artist  looks  to  his  talent  for  support  as  the  fille  de  joie 
counts  upon  her  beauty. 

All  through  those  splendid  years  of  travel  Pons  was  as 
happy  as  was  possible  to  a  man  with  a  great  soul,  a  sensitive 
nature,  and  a  face  so  ugly  that  any  "  success  with  the  fair  " 
(to  use  the  stereotyped  formula  of  1809)  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  the  realities  of  life  always  fell  short  of  the  ideals  which 
Pons  created  for  himself;  the  world  without  was  not  in  tune 
with  the  soul  within,  but  Pons  had  made  up  his  mind  to  the 
dissonance.  Doubtless  the  sense  of  beauty  that  he  had  kept 
pure  and  living  in  his  inmost  soul  was  the  spring  from  which 
the  delicate,  graceful,  and  ingenious  music  flowed  and  won 
him  reputation  between  1810  and  1814. 

Every  reputation  founded  upon  the  fashion  or  the  fancy 
of  the  hour,  or  upon  the  short-lived  follies  of  Paris,  pro- 
duces its  Pons.  No  place  in  the  world  is  so  inexorable  in 
great  things;  no  city  of  the  globe  so  disdainfully  indulgent 
in  small.  Pons's  notes  were  drowned  before  long  in  floods  of 
German  harmony  and  the  music  of  Rossini ;  and  if  in  1824  he 
was  known  as  an  agreeable  musician,  a  composer  of  various 
drawing-room  melodies,  judge  if  he  was  likely  to  be  famous  in 
1831 !  In  1844,  the  year  in  which  the  single  drama  of  his 
obscure  life  began,  Sylvain  Pons  was  of  no  more  value  than 
an  antediluvian  semiquaver ;  dealers  in  music  had  never  heard 
of  his  name  though  he  was  still  composing,  on  scanty  pay,  for 
his  own  orchestra  or  for  neighboring  theaters. 

And  yet,  the  worthy  man  did  justice  to  the  great  masters 
of  our  day ;  a  masterpiece  finely  rendered  brought  tears  to 
his  eyes ;  but  his  religion  never  bordered  on  mania,  as  in  the 


S  COUSIN  PONS 

case  of  Hoffmann's  Krelslers ;  he  kept  his  enthusiasm  to  him- 
self; his  delight,  like  the  paradise  reached  by  opium  or 
Jiasheesh,  lay  within  his  own  soul. 

The  gift  of  admiration,  of  comprehension,  the  single 
faculty  by  which  the  ordinary  man  becomes  the  brother  of  the 
poet,  is  rare  in  this  city  of  Paris,  that  inn  whither  all  ideas, 
like  travelers,  come  to  stay  for  a  while ;  so  rare  is  it,  that 
Pons  surely  deserves  our  respectful  esteem.  His  personal 
failure  may  seem  anomalous,  but  he  frankly  admitted  that  he 
was  weak  in  harmony.  He  had  neglected  the  study  of  coun- 
terpoint ;  there  was  a  time  when  he  might  have  begun  his 
studies  afresh  and  held  his  own  among  modern  composers, 
when  he  might  have  been,  not  certainly  a  Rossini,  but  a 
Herold.  But  he  was  alarmed  by  the  intricacies  of  modern  or- 
chestration ;  and  at  length,  in  the  pleasures  of  collecting,  he 
found  such  ever-renewed  compensation  for  his  failure,  that  if 
he  had  been  made  to  choose  between  his  curiosities  and  the 
fame  of  Rossini — will  it  be  believed.'' — Pons  would  have  pro- 
nounced for  his  beloved  collection. 

Pons  was  of  the  opinion  of  Chenavard,  the  print-collector, 
who  laid  it  down  as  an  axiom — that  you  only  fully  enjoy  the 
pleasure  of  looking  at  your  Ruysdael,  Hobbema,  Holbein, 
Rafael,  Murillo,  Greuze,  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  Giorgione, 
Albrecht  Diirer,  or  what  not,  when  you  have  paid  less  than 
sixty  francs  for  your  picture.  Pons  never  gave  more  than  a 
hundred  francs  for  any  purchase.  If  he  laid  out  as  much  as 
-fifty  francs,  he  was  careful  to  assure  himself  beforehand  that 
the  object  was  worth  three  thousand.  The  most  beautiful 
ihing  in  the  world,  if  it  cost  three  hundred  francs,  did  not 
exist  for  Pons.  Rare  had  been  his  bargains ;  but  he  pos- 
sessed the  three  qualifications  for  success — a  stag's  legs,  an 
idler's  disregard  of  time,  and  the  patience  of  a  Jew. 

This  system,  carried  out  for  forty  years,  in  Rome  or  Paris 
alike,  had  borne  its  fruits.  Since  Pons  returned  from  Italy, 
he  had  regularly  spent  about  two  thousand  francs  a  year 
upon  a  collection  of  masterpieces  of  every  sort  and  descrip- 
tion, a  collection  hidden  away  from  all  eyes  but  his  own ;  and 
now  his  catalogue  had  reached  the  incredible  number  1907. 
Wandering  about  Paris  between   1811    and   1816,   he   had 


COUSIN  PONS  9 

picked  up  many  a  treasure  for  ten  francs,  which  would  fetch 
a  thousand  or  twelve  hundred  to-day.  Some  forty-five  thou- 
sand canvases  change  hands  annually  in  Paris  picture  sales, 
and  these  Pons  had  sifted  through  year  by  year.  Pons  had 
Sevres  porcelain,  pate  tendre,  bought  of  Auvergnats,  those 
satellites  of  the  Black  Band  who  sacked  chateaux  and  carried 
off  the  marvels  of  Pompadour  France  in  their  tumbril  carts ; 
he  had,  in  fact,  collected  the  drifted  wreck  of  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries ;  he  recognized  the  genius  of  the 
French  school,  and  discerned  the  merit  of  the  Lepautres  and 
Lavallee-Poussins  and  the  rest  of  the  great  obscure  creators 
of  the  Genre  Louis  Quinze  and  the  Genre  Louis  Seize.  Our 
modern  craftsmen  now  draw  without  acknowledgment  from 
them,  pore  incessantly  over  the  treasures  of  the  Cabinet  des 
Estampes,  borrow  adroitly,  and  give  out  their  -pastiches  for 
new  inventions.  Pons  had  obtained  many  a  piece  by  ex- 
change, and  therein  lies  the  ineffable  joy  of  the  collector. 
The  joy  of  buying  bric-a-brac  is  a  secondary  delight;  in  the 
give-and-take  of  barter  lies  the  joy  of  joys.  Pons  had  be- 
gun by  collecting  snuff-boxes  and  miniatures ;  his  name  was 
unknown  in  bric-a-bracology,  for  he  seldom  showed  himself 
in  salesrooms  or  in  the  shops  of  well-known  dealers ;  Pons  was 
not  aware  that  his  treasures  had  any  commercial  value. 

The  late  lamented  Dusommerard  tried  his  best  to  gain 
Pons's  confidence,  but  the  prince  of  bric-a-brac  died  before  he 
could  gain  an  entrance  to  the  Pons  museum,  the  one  private 
collection  which  could  compare  with  the  famous  Sauvageot 
museum.  Pons  and  M.  Sauvageot  indeed  resembled  each 
other  in  more  ways  than  one.  M.  Sauvageot,  like  Pons,  was  a 
musician ;  he  was  likewise  a  comparatively  poor  man,  and  he 
had  collected  his  bric-a-brac  in  much  the  same  way,  with  the 
same  love  of  art,  the  same  hatred  of  rich  capitalists  with  well- 
known  names  who  collect  for  the  sake  of  running  up  prices  as 
cleverly  as  possible.  There  was  yet  another  point  of  re- 
semblance between  the  pair:  Pons,  like  his  rival  competitor 
and  antagonist,  felt  in  his  heart  an  insatiable  craving  after 
specimens  of  the  craftsman's  skill  and  miracles  of  workman- 
ship ;  he  loved  them  as  a  man  might  love  a  fair  mistress ;  an 
auction  in  the  salesrooms  in  the  Rue  des  Jeuneurs,  with  its  ac- 


10  COUSIN  PONS 

companiments  of  hammer  strokes  and  brokers'  men,  was  a 
crime  of  lese-hnc-a-hrac  in  Pons's  eyes.  Pons's  museum  was 
for  his  own  dehght  at  every  hour;  for  the  soul  created  to 
know  and  feel  all  the  beauty  of  a  masterpiece  has  this  in 
common  with  the  lover — to-day's  joy  is  as  great  as  the  joy  of 
yesterday ;  possession  never  palls ;  and  a  masterpiece,  happily, 
never  grows  old.  So  the  object  that  he  held  in  his  hand  with 
such  fatherly  care  could  only  be  a  "  find,"  carried  off  with 
what  affection  amateurs  alone  know ! 

After  the  first  outlines  of  this  biographical  sketch,  every- 
one will  cry  at  once,  "  Why !  this  is  the  happiest  man  on 
earth,  in  spite  of  his  ugliness !  "  And,  in  truth,  no  spleen, 
no  dullness  can  resist  the  counter-irritant  supplied  by  a 
"  craze,"  the  intellectual  moxa  of  a  hobby.  You  who  can  no 
longer  drink  of  "  the  cup  of  pleasure,"  as  it  has  been  called 
through  all  ages,  try  to  collect  something,  no  matter  what 
(people  have  been  known  to  collect  placards),  so  shall  you  re- 
ceive the  small  change  for  the  gold  ingot  of  happiness.  Have 
you  a  hobby  ?  You  have  transferred  pleasure  to  the  plane  of 
ideas.  And  yet,  you  need  not  envy  the  worthy  Pons ;  such 
envy,  like  all  kindred  sentiments,  would  be  founded  upon  a 
misapprehension. 

With  a  nature  so  sensitive,  with  a  soul  that  lived  by  tireless 
admiration  of  the  magnificent  achievements  of  art,  of  the  high 
rivalry  between  human  toil  and  the  work  of  Nature — Pons 
was  a  slave  to  that  one  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  with  which 
God  surely  will  deal  least  hardly;  Pons  was  a  glutton.  A 
narrow  income,  combined  with  a  passion  for  bric-a-brac,  con- 
demned him  to  a  regimen  so  abhorrent  to  a  discriminating 
palate,  that,  bachelor  as  he  was,  he  had  cut  the  knot  of  the 
problem  by  dining  out  every  day. 

Now,  in  the  time  of  the  Empire,  celebrities  were  more 
sought  after  than  at  present,  perhaps  because  there  were 
so  few  of  them,  perhaps  because  they  made  little  or  no  politi- 
cal pretension.  In  those  days,  besides,  you  could  set  up  for 
a  poet,  a  musician,  or  a  painter,  with  so  little  expense.  Pons, 
being  regarded  as  the  probable  rival  of  Nicolo,  Paer,  and  Ber- 
ton,  used  to  receive  so  many  invitations,  that  he  was  forced 
to  keep  a  list  of  engagements,  much  as  barristers  note  down 


COUSIN  PONS  11 

the  cases  for  which  they  are  retained.  And  Pons  behaved 
like  an  artist.  He  presented  his  amphitryons  with  copies  of 
his  songs,  he  "  obhged  "  at  the  pianoforte,  he  brought  them 
orders  for  boxes  at  the  Feydeau,  his  own  theater,  he  organized 
concerts,  he  was  not  above  taking  the  fiddle  himself  sometimes 
in  a  relation's  house,  and  getting  up  a  little  impromptu  dance. 
In  those  days,  all  the  handsome  men  in  France  were  away 
at  the  wars  exchanging  saber-cuts  with  the  handsome  men  of 
the  Coalition.  Pons  was  said  to  be,  not  ugly,  but  "  peculiar- 
looking,"  after  the  grand  rule  laid  down  by  Moliere  in 
Eliante's  famous  couplets ;  but  if  he  sometimes  heard  himself 
described  as  a  "  charming  man  "  ( after  he  had  done  some 
fair  lady  a  service),  his  good  fortune  went  no  further  than 
words. 

It  was  between  the  years  1810  and  1816  that  Pons  con- 
tracted the  unlucky  habit  of  dining  out ;  he  grew  accustomed 
to  see  his  hosts  taking  pains  over  the  dinner,  procuring  the 
first  and  best  of  everything,  bringing  out  their  choicest 
vintages,  seeing  carefully  to  the  dessert,  the  coffee,  and 
liqueurs,  giving  him  of  their  best,  in  short ;  the  best,  more- 
over, of  those  times  of  the  Empire  when  Paris  was  glutted 
with  kings  and  queens  and  princes,  and  many  a  private  house 
emulated  royal  spendors. 

People  used  to  play  at  Royalty  then  as  they  play  nowadays 
at  parliament,  creating  a  whole  host  of  societies  with  presi- 
dents, vice-presidents,  secretaries  and  what  not — agricultural 
societies,  industrial  societies,  societies  for  the  promotion  of 
sericulture,  viticulture,  the  growth  of  flax,  and  so  forth. 
Some  have  even  gone  so  far  as  to  look  about  them  for  social 
evils  in  order  to  start  a  society  to  cure  them. 

But  to  return  to  Pons.  A  stomach  thus  educated  is  sure 
to  react  upon  the  owner's  moral  fiber;  the  demoralization  of 
the  man  varies  directly  with  his  progress  in  culinary  sapience. 
Voluptuousness,  lurking  in  every  secret  recess  of  the  heart, 
lays  down  the  law  therein.  Honor  and  resolution  are  battered 
in  breach.  The  tyranny  of  the  palate  has  never  been  de- 
scribed ;  as  a  necessity  of  life  it  escapes  the  criticism  of  litera- 
ture; yet  no  one  imagines  how  many  have  been  ruined  by  the 
table.     The  luxury  of  the  table  is  indeed,  in  this  sense,  the 


12  COUSIN  PONS 

courtesan's  one  competitor  in  Paris,  besides  representing  in  a 
manner  the  credit  side  in  another  account,  where  she  figures  as 
the  expenditure. 

With  Pons's  decline  and  fall  as  an  artist  came  his  simul- 
taneous transformation  from  invited  guest  to  parasite  and 
hanger-on ;  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  quit  dinners  so  ex- 
cellently served  for  the  Spartan  broth  of  a  two-franc 
ordinary.  Alas  !  alas  !  a  shudder  ran  through  him  at  the  mere 
thought  of  the  great  sacrifices  which  independence  required 
him  to  make.  He  felt  that  he  was  capable  of  sinking  to  even 
lower  depths  for  the  sake  of  good  living,  if  there  was  no 
other  way  of  enjoying  the  first  and  best  of  everything,  of 
guzzling  (vulgar  but  expressive  word)  nice  little  dishes  care- 
fully prepared.  Pons  lived  like  a  bird,  pilfering  his  meal, 
flying  away  when  he  had  taken  his  fill,  singing  a  few  notes  by 
way  of  return ;  he  took  a  certain  pleasure  in  the  thought  that 
he  lived  at  the  expense  of  society,  which  asked  of  him — what 
but  the  trifling  toll  of  grimaces.-^  Like  all  confirmed  bach- 
elors, who  hold  their  lodgings  in  horror,  and  live  as  much  as 
possible  in  other  people's  houses.  Pons  was  accustomed  to  the 
formulas  and  facial  contortions  which  do  duty  for  feeling  in 
the  world ;  he  used  compliments  as  small  change ;  and  as  far 
as  others  were  concerned,  he  was  satisfied  with  the  labels  they 
bore,  and  never  plunged  a  too  curious  hand  into  the  sack. 

This  not  intolerable  phase  lasted  for  another  ten  years. 
Such  years !  Pons's  life  was  closing  with  a  rainy  autumn. 
All  through  those  years  he  contrived  to  dine  without  expense 
by  making  himself  necessary  in  the  houses  which  he  fre- 
quented. He  took  the  first  step  in  the  downward  path  by 
undertaking  a  host  of  small  commissions ;  many  and  many  a 
time  Pons  ran  on  errands  instead  of  the  porter  or  the  servant ; 
many  a  purchase  he  made  for  his  entertainers.  He  became  a 
kind  of  harmless,  well-meaning  spy,  sent  by  one  family  into 
another;  but  he  gained  no  credit  with  those  for  whom  he 
trudged  about,  and  so  often  sacrificed  self-respect. 

*'  Pons  is  a  bachelor,"  said  they ;  "  he  is  at  a  loss  to  know 
what  to  do  with  his  time ;  he  is  only  too  glad  to  trot  about  for 
us. — What  else  would  he  do  ?  " 

Very  soon  the  cold  which  old  age  spreads  about  itself  be- 


COUSIN  PONS  IS- 

gan  to  set  in ;  the  communicable  cold  which  sensibly  lowers  the 
social  temperature,  especially  if  the  old  man  is  ugly  and  poor. 
Old  and  ugly  and  poor — is  not  this  to  be  thrice  old?  Pons's 
winter  had  begun,  the  winter  which  brings  the  reddened  nose, 
and  frost-nipped  cheeks,  and  the  numbed  fingers,  numb  in 
how  many  ways  ! 

Invitations  very  seldom  came  for  Pons  now.  So  far  from 
seeking  the  society  of  the  parasite,  every  family  accepted  him 
much  as  they  accepted  the  taxes ;  they  valued  nothing  that 
Pons  could  do  for  them ;  real  sersaces  from  Pons  counted  for 
naught.  The  family  circles  in  which  the  worthy  artist  re- 
volved had  no  respect  for  art  or  letters ;  they  went  down  on 
their  knees  to  practical  results ;  they  valued  nothing  but  the 
fortune  or  social  position  acquired  since  the  year  1830. 
The  bourgeoisie  is  afraid  of  intellect  and  genius,  but  Pons's 
spirit  and  manner  were  not  haughty  enough  to  overawe  his 
relations,  and  naturally  he  had  come  at  last  to  be  accounted 
less  than  nothing  with  them,  though  he  was  not  altogether 
despised. 

He  had  suffered  acutely  among  them,  but,  like  all  timid 
creatures,  he  kept  silence  as  to  his  pain ;  and  so  by  degrees 
schooled  himself  to  hide  his  feelings,  and  learned  to  take 
sanctuary  in  his  inmost  self.  Many  superficial  persons  in- 
terpret this  conduct  by  the  short  word  "  selfishness  " ;  and, 
indeed,  the  resemblance  between  the  egoist  and  the  solitary 
human  creature  is  strong  enough  to  seem  to  justify  the 
harsher  verdict;  and  this  is  especially  true  in  Paris,  where 
nobody  observes  others  closely,  where  all  things  pass  swift  as 
waves,  and  last  as  little  as  a  Ministry. 

So  Cousin  Pons  was  accused  of  selfishness  (behind  his 
back)  ;  and  if  the  world  accuses  anyone,  it  usually  finds  him 
guilty  and  condemns  him  into  the  bargain.  Pons  bowed  to 
the  decision.  Do  any  of  us  know  how  such  a  timid  nature  is 
cast  down  by  an  unjust  judgment?  Who  will  ever  paint  all 
that  the  timid  suffer?  This  state  of  things,  now  growing 
daily  worse,  explains  the  sad  expression  on  the  poor  old  musi- 
cian's face ;  he  lived  by  capitulations  of  which  he  was  ashamed. 
Every  time  we  sin  against  self-respect  at  the  bidding  of  the 
ruling  passion,  we  rivet  its  hold  upon  us;  the  more  that 


14  COUSIN  PONS 

passion  requires  of  us,  the  stronger  it  grows,  every  sacrifice 
increasing,  as  it  were,  the  value  of  a  satisfaction  for  which 
so  much  has  been  given  up,  till  the  negative  sum-total  of  re- 
nouncements looms  very  large  in  a  man's  imagination.  Pons, 
for  instance,  after  enduring  the  insolently  patronizing  looks 
of  some  bourgeois,  incased  in  buckram  of  stupidity,  sipped  his 
glass  of  port  or  finished  his  quail  v.ith  bread-crumbs,  and  rel- 
ished something  of  the  savor  of  revenge  besides.  "  It  is  not 
too  dear  at  the  price !  "  he  said  to  himself. 

After  all,  in  the  eyes  of  the  moralist,  there  were  extenuat- 
ing circumstances  in  Pons's  case.  Man  only  lives,  in  fact, 
by  some  personal  satisfaction.  The  passionless,  perfectly 
righteous  man  is  not  human ;  he  is  a  monster,  an  angel  want- 
ing wings.  The  angel  of  Christian  mythology  has  nothing 
but  a  head.  On  earth,  the  righteous  person  is  the  sufficiently 
tiresome  Grandison,  for  whom  the  very  Venus  of  the  Cross- 
roads is  sexless. 

Setting  aside  one  or  two  commonplace  adA^enturcs  in  Italy, 
in  which  probably  the  climate  accounted  for  his  success,  no 
woman  had  ever  smiled  upon  Pons.  Plenty  of  men  are 
doomed  to  this  fate.  Pons  was  an  abnormal  birth ;  the  child 
of  parents  well  stricken  in  years,  he  bore  the  stigma  of  his 
untimely  genesis ;  his  cadaverous  complexion  might  have  been 
contracted  in  the  flask  of  spirit-of-wine  in  which  science  pre- 
serves some  extraordinary  fetus.  Artist  though  he  was,  with 
his  tender,  dreamy,  sensitive  soul,  he  was  forced  to  accept  the 
character  which  belonged  to  his  face ;  it  was  hopeless  to  think 
of  love,  and  he  remained  a  bachelor,  not  so  much  of  choice  as 
of  necessity.  Then  Gluttony,  the  sin  of  the  continent  monk, 
beckoned  to  Pons ;  he  rushed  upon  temptation,  as  he  had 
thrown  his  whole  soul  into  the  adoration  of  art  and  the  cult  of 
music.  Good  cheer  and  bric-a-brac  gave  him  the  small 
change  for  the  love  which  could  spend  itself  in  no  other  way. 
As  for  music,  it  was  his  profession,  and  where  will  you  find 
the  man  who  is  in  love  with  his  means  of  earning  a  livelihood.'* 
For  it  is  with  a  profession  as  with  marriage:  in  the  long 
length  you  are  sensible  of  nothing  but  the  drawbacks. 

Brillat-Sava^'in  has  deliberately  set  himself  to  justify  the 
gastronome,  but  perhaps  even  he  has  not  dwelt  sufficiently  oa 


COUSIN  PONS  15 

the  reality  of  the  pleasures  of  the  table.  The  demands  of  di- 
gestion upon  the  human  economy  produce  a.n  internal  wres- 
tling-bout of  human  forces  which  rivals  the  highest  degree  of 
amorous  pleasure.  The  gastronome  is  conscious  of  an  ex- 
penditure of  vital  power,  an  expenditure  so  vast  that  the 
brain  is  atrophied  (as  it  were),  that  a  second  brain,  located 
in  the  diaphragm,  may  come  into  play,  and  the  suspension  of 
all  the  faculties  is  in  itself  a  kind  of  intoxication.  A  boa- 
constrictor  gorged  with  an  ox  is  so  stupid  with  excess  that 
the  creature  is  easily  killed.  What  man,  on  the  wrong -side 
of  forty,  is  rash  enough  to  work  after  dinner.''  And  remark 
in  the  same  connection,  that  all  great  men  have  been  moderate 
eaters.  The  exhilarating  effect  of  the  wing  of  a  chicken 
upon  invalids  recovering  from  serious  illness,  and  long  con- 
fined to  a  stinted  and  carefully  chosen  diet,  has  been'  fre- 
quently remarked.  The  sober  Pons,  whose  whole  enjoyment 
was  concentrated  in  the  exercise  of  his  digestive  organs,  was 
in  the  position  of  chronic  convalescence ;  he  looked  to  his  din- 
ner to  give  him  the  utmost  degree  of  pleasurable  sensation, 
and  hitherto  he  had  procured  such  sensations  daily.  Who 
dares  to  bid  farewell  to  old  habit.'*  ^lany  a  man  on  the  brink 
of  suicide  has  been  plucked  back  on  the  threshold  of  death  by 
the  thought  of  the  cafe  where  he  plays  his  nightly  game  of 
dominoes. 

In  the  year  1835,  chance  avenged  Pons  for  the  indifference 
of  womankind  by  finding  him  a  prop  for  his  declining  years, 
as  the  saying  goes ;  and  he,  who  had  been  old  from  his 
cradle,  found  a  support  in  friendship.  Pons  took  to  himself 
the  only  life-partner  permitted  to  him  among  his  kind — an  old 
man  and  a  fellow  musician. 

But  for  La  Fontaine's  fable  Les  Deux  Amis,  this  sketch 
should  have  borne  the  title  of  The  Two  Friends ;  but  to  take 
the  name  of  his  divine  story  would  surely  be  a  deed  of 
violence,  a  profanation  from  which  every  true  man  of  letters 
would  shrink.  The  title  ought  to  be  borne  alone  and  forever 
by  the  fabulist's  masterpiece,  the  revelation  of  his  soul,  and 
the  record  of  his  dreams ;  those  three  words  were  set  once 
and  forever  by  the  poet  at  the  head  of  a  page  which  is  his 
by  a  sacred  right  of  ownership ;  for  it  is  a  shrine  before  which 


16  COUSIN  PONS 

all  generations,  all  over  the  world,  will  kneel  so  long  as  the 
art  of  printing  shall  endure. 

Pons's  friend  gave  lessons  on  the  pianoforte.  They  met 
and  struck  up  an  acquaintance  in  1834  one  prize  day  at  a 
boarding-school ;  and  so  congenial  were  their  ways  of  think- 
ing and  living,  that  Pons  used  to  say  that  he  had  found  his 
friend  too  late  for  his  happiness.  Never,  perhaps,  did  two 
souls,  so  much  alike,  find  each  other  in  the  great  ocean  of 
humanity  which  flowed  forth,  in  disobedience  to  the  will  of 
God,  from  its  source  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Before  very 
long  the  two  musicians  could  not  live  without  each  other. 
Confidences  were  exchanged,  and  in  a  week's  time  they  were 
like  brothers.  Schmucke  (for  that  was  his  name)  had  not 
believed  that  such  a  man  as  Pons  existed,  nor  had  Pons 
imagined  that  a  Schmucke  was  possible.  Here  already  you 
have  a  sufficient  description  of  the  good  couple ;  but  it  is  not 
every  mind  that  takes  kindly  to  the  concise  synthetic  method, 
and  a  certain  amount  of  demonstration  is  necessary  if  the 
credulous  are  to  accept  the  conclusion. 

This  pianist,  like  all  other  pianists,  was  a  German.  A 
German,  like  the  eminent  Liszt  and  the  great  Mendelssohn, 
and  Steibelt,  and  Dussek,  and  Meyer,  and  Mozart,  and 
Doelher,  and  Thalberg,  and  Dreschok,  and  Hiller,  and  Leo- 
pold Mayer,  and  Cramer,  and  Zimmerman,  and  Kalkbrenner, 
and  Hertz,  Woertz,  Karr,  Wolff,  Pixis,  and  Clara  Wieck — 
and  all  Germans,  generally  speaking.  Schmucke  was  a  great 
musical  composer  doomed  to  remain  a  music  master,  so  ut- 
terly did  his  character  lack  the  audacity  which  a  musical 
genius  needs  if  he  is  to  push  his  way  to  the  front.  A  Ger- 
man's naivete  does  not  invariably  last  him  through  his  life; 
in  some  cases  it  fails  after  a  certain  age ;  and  even  as  a  culti- 
vator of  the  soil  brings  water  from  afar  by  means  of  irriga- 
tion channels,  so,  from  the  springs  of  his  youth,  does  the  Teu- 
ton draw  the  simplicity  which  disarms  suspicion — the  peren- 
nial supplies  with  which  he  fertilizes  his  labors  in  every  field 
of  science,  art,  or  commerce.  A  crafty  Frenchman  here  and 
there  will  turn  a  Parisian  tradesman's  stupidity  to  good  ac- 
count in  the  same  way.  But  Schmucke  had  kept  his  child's 
simplicity  much  as  Pons  continued  to  wear  his  relics  of  the 


COUSIN  PONS  lY, 

Empire — all  unsuspectingly.  The  true  and  noble-hearted 
German  was  at  once  the  theater  and  the  audience,  making 
music  within  himself  for  himself  alone.  In  this  city  of  Paris 
he  lived  as  a  nightingale  lives  among  the  thickets ;  and  for 
twenty  years  he  sang  on,  mateless,  till  he  met  with  a  second 
self  in  Pons.^ 

Both  Pons  and  Schmucke  were  abundantly  given,  both  by 
heart  and  disposition,  to  the  peculiarly  German  sentimental- 
ity which  shows  itself  in  childlike  ways — in  a  passion  for 
flowers,  in  that  form  of  nature-worship  which  prompts  a  Ger- 
man to  plant  his  garden  beds  with  big  glass  globes  for  the 
sake  of  seeing  miniature  pictures  of  a  view  which  he  can  be- 
hold about  him  of  a  natural  size ;  in  the  inquiring  turn  of 
mind  that  sets  a  learned  Teuton  trudging  three  hundred  miles 
in  his  gaiters  in  search  of  a  fact  which  smiles  up  in  his  face 
from  a  wayside  spring,  or  lurks  laughing  under  the  jessa- 
mine leaves  in  the  backyard;  or  (to  take  a  final  instance)  in 
the  German  craving  to  endow  every  least  detail  in  creation 
with  a  spiritual  significance,  a  craving  which  produces  some- 
times the  inexplicable  work  of  a  Jean  Paul  Richter,  sometimes 
Hoffmann's  tipsiness  in  type,  sometimes  the  folios  with  which 
Germany  hedges  the  simplest  questions  round  about,  lest 
haply  any  fool  should  fall  into  her  intellectual  excavations ; 
and,  indeed,  if  you  fathom  these  abysses,  you  find  nothing  but 
a  German  at  the  bottom. 

Both  friends  were  Catholics.  They  went  to  Mass  and  per- 
formed the  duties  of  religion  together;  and,  like  children, 
found  nothing  to  tell  their  confessors.  It  was  their  firm 
behef  that  music  is  to  feeling  and  thought  as  thought  and 
feeling  are  to  speech ;  and  of  their  converse  on  this  system 
there  was  no  end.  Each  made  response  to  the  other  in  orgies 
of  sound,  demonstrating  their  convictions,  each  for  each,  like 
lovers. 

Schmucke  was  as  absent-minded  as  Pons  was  wide  awake. 
Pons  was  a  collector,  Schmucke  a  dreamer  of  dreams; 
Schmucke  was  a  student  of  beauty  seen  by  the  soul.  Pons  a 
preserver  of  material  beauty.  Pons  would  catch  sight  of  a 
china  cup  and  buy  it  in  the  time  that  Schmucke  took  to  blow 

*  See  Une  Fille  d'ilve. 


18  COUSIN  PONS 

his  nose,  wondering  the  while  within  himself  whether  the 
musical  phrase  that  was  ringing  in  his  brain — the  motif  from 
Rossini  or  Bellini  or  Beethoven  or  Mozart — had  its  origin  or 
its  counterpart  in  the  world  of  human  thought  and  emotion. 
Schmucke's  economies  were  controlled  by  an  absent  mind, 
Pons  was  a  spendthrift  through  passion,  and  for  both  the 
result  was  the  same — they  had  not  a  penny  on  Saint  Syl- 
vester's day. 

Perhaps  Pons  would  have  given  way  under  his  troubles 
if  it  had  not  been  for  this  friendship ;  but  life  became  bear- 
able when  he  found  someone  to  whom  he  could  pour  out  his 
heart.  The  first  time  that  he  breathed  a  word  of  his  diffi- 
culties, the  good  German  had  advised  him  to  live  as  he  himself 
did,  and  eat  bread  and  cheese  at  home  sooner  than  dine  abroad 
at  such  a  cost.  Alas  !  Pons  did  not  dare  to  confess  that  heart 
and  stomach  were  at  war  within  him,  that  he  could  digest 
affronts  which  pained  his  heart,  and,  cost  what  it  might,  a 
good  dinner  that  satisfied  his  palate  was  a  necessity  to  him, 
even  as  your  gay  Lothario  must  have  a  mistress  to  tease. 

In  time  Schmucke  understood;  not  just  at  once,  for  he  was 
too  much  of  a  Teuton  to  possess  that  gift  of  swift  perception 
in  which  the  French  rejoice;  Schmucke  understood  and  loved 
poor  Pons  the  better.  Nothing  so  fortifies  a  friendship  as  a 
belief  on  the  part  of  one  friend  that  he  is  superior  to  the  other. 
An  angel  could  not  have  found  a  word  to  say  to  Schmucke 
rubbing  his  hands  over  the  discovery  of  the  held  that  gluttony 
had  gained  over  Pons.  Indeed,  the  good  German  adorned 
their  breakfast-table  next  morning  with  delicacies  of  which  he 
went  in  search  himself;  and  every  day  he  was  careful  to  pro- 
vide something  new  for  his  friend,  for  they  always  break- 
fasted together  at  home. 

If  anyone  imagines  that  the  pair  could  escape  ridicule  in 
Paris,  where  nothing  is  respected,  he  cannot  know  that  city. 
When  Schmucke  and  Pons  united  their  riches  and  poverty, 
they  hit  upon  the  economical  expedient  of  lodging  together, 
each  paying  half  the  rent  of  the  very  unequally  divided  sec- 
ond-floor of  a  house  in  the  Rue  de  Normandie  in  the  Marais. 
And  as  it  often  happened  that  they  left  home  together  and 
walked  side  by  side  along  their  beat  of  boulevard,  the  idlers 


COUSIN  PONS  19 

of  the  quarter  dubbed  them  "  the  pair  of  nutcrackers,"  a  nick- 
name which  makes  any  portrait  of  Schmucke  quite  super- 
fluous, for  he  was  to  Pons  as  the  famous  statue  of  the  Nurse 
of  Niobe  in  the  Vatican  is  to  the  Tribune  Venus, 

Mme.  Cibot,  portress  of  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Normandie, 
was  the  pivot  on  which  the  domestic  life  of  the  nutcrackers 
turned ;  but  Mme.  Cibot  plays  so  large  a  part  in  the  drama 
which  grew  out  of  their  double  existence,  that  it  will  be  m.ore 
appropriate  to  give  her  portrait  on  her  first  appearance  in 
this  Scene  of  Parisian  Life. 

One  thing  remains  to  be  said  of  the  characters  of  the  pair 
of  friends ;  but  this  one  thing  is  precisely  the  hardest  to  make 
clear  to  ninety-nine  readers  out  of  a  hundred  in  this  forty- 
seventh  year  of  the  nineteenth  century,  perhaps  by  reason  of 
the  prodigious  financial  development  brought  about  by  the 
railway  system.  It  is  a  little  thing,  and  yet  it  is  much.  It 
is  a  question,  in  fact,  of  giving  an  idea  of  the  extreme  sensi- 
tiveness of  their  natures.  Let  us  borrow  an  illustration 
from  the  railways,  if  only  by  way  of  retaliation,  as  it  were, 
for  the  loans  which  they  levy  upon  us.  The  railway  train 
of  to-day,  tearing  over  the  metals,  grinds  away  fine 
particles  of  dust,  grains  so  minute  that  a  traveler  cannot 
detect  them  with  the  eye ;  but  let  a  single  one  of  those  in- 
visible motes  find  its  way  into  the  kidneys,  it  will  bring  about 
that  most  excruciating,  and  sometimes  fatal,  disease  known 
as  gravel.  And  our  society,  rushing  like  a  locomotive  along 
its  metaled  track,  is  heedless  of  the  all  but  imperceptible 
dust  made  by  the  grinding  of  the  wheels ;  but  it  was  other- 
wise with  the  two  musicians :  the  invisible  grains  of  sand  sank 
perpetually  into  the  very  fibers  of  their  being,  causing  them 
intolerable  anguish  of  heart.  Tender  exceedingly  to  the  pain 
of  others,  they  wept  for  their  own  powerlessness  to  help ; 
and  their  own  susceptibilities  were  almost  morbidly  acute. 
Neither  age  nor  the  continual  spectacle  of  the  drama  of  Paris 
life  had  hardened  two  souls  still  young  and  childlike  and 
pure ;  the  longer  they  lived  indeed,  the  more  keenly  they  felt 
their  inward  suffering ;  for  so  it  is,  alas !  with  natures  un- 
sullied by  the  world,  with  the  quiet  thinker,  and  with  such 
poets  among  poets  as  have  never  fallen  into  any  excess. 


20  COUSIN  PONS 

Since  the  old  men  began  housekeeping  together,  the  (day's 
routine  was  very  nearly  the  same  for  them  both.  They 
worked  together  in  harness  in  the  fraternal  fashion  of  the 
Paris  cab-horse ;  rising  every  morning,  summer  and  winter,  at 
seven  o'clock,  and  setting  out  after  breakfast  to  give  music 
lessons  in  the  boarding-schools,  in  which,  upon  occasion,  they 
would  take  lessons  for  each  other.  Towards  noon  Pons  re- 
paired to  his  theater,  if  there  was  a  rehearsal  on  hand ;  but  all 
his  spare  moments  were  spent  in  sauntering  on  the  boulevards. 
Night  found  both  of  them  in  the  orchestra  at  the  theater,  for 
Pons  had  found  a  place  for  Schmucke,  and  upon  this  wise. 

At  the  time  of  their  first  meeting.  Pons  had  just  received 
that  marshal's  baton  of  the  unknown  musical  composer — an 
appointment  as  conductor  of  an  orchestra.  It  had  come  to 
him  unasked,  by  favor  of  Count  Popinot,  a  bourgeois  hero  of 
July,  at  that  time  a  member  of  the  Government.  Count 
Popinot  had  the  license  of  a  theater  in  his  gift,  and  Count 
Popinot  had  also  an  old  acquaintance  of  the  kind  that  the 
successful  man  blushes  to  meet.  As  he  rolls  through  the 
streets  of  Paris  in  his  carriage,  it  is  not  pleasant  to  see  his 
bo3^hood's  chum  down  at  heel,  with  a  coat  of  many  improbable 
colors  and  trousers  innocent  of  straps,  and  a  head  full  of 
soaring  speculations  on  too  grand  a  scale  to  tempt  shy,  easily 
scared  capital.  Moreover,  this  friend  of  his  youth,  Gaudis- 
sart  by  name,  had  done  not  a  little  in  the  past  towards  found- 
ing the  fortunes  of  the  great  house  of  Popinot.  Popinot, 
now  a  Count  and  a  peer  of  France,  after  twice  holding  a  port- 
folio, had  no  wish  to  shake  off  "  the  Illustrious  Gaudissart." 
Quite  otherwise.  The  pomps  and  vanities  of  the  Court  of  the 
Citizen-King  had  not  spoiled  the  sometime  druggist's  kind 
heart ;  he  wished  to  put  his  ex-commercial  traveler  in  the  way 
of  renewing  his  wardrobe  and  replenishing  his  purse.  So 
when  Gaudissart,  always  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  fair 
sex,  applied  for  the  license  of  a  bankrupt  theater,  Popinot 
granted  it  on  condition  that  Pons  (a  parasite  of  the  Hotel 
Popinot)  should  be  engaged  as  conductor  of  the  orchestra; 
and  at  the  same  time,  the  Count  was  careful  to  send  certain 
elderly  amateurs  of  beauty  to  the  theater,  so  that  the  new 
manager  might  be  strongly  supported  financially  by  wealthy 


COUSIN  PONS  £1 

admirers  of  feminine  charms  revealed  by  the  costume  of  the 
ballet. 

Gaudissart  and  Company,  who,  be  it  said,  made  their  for- 
tune, hit  upon  the  grand  idea  of  operas  for  the  people,  and 
carried  it  out  in  a  boulevard  theater  in  1834.  A  tolerable 
conductor,  who  could  adapt  or  even  compose  a  little  music 
upon  occasion,  was  a  necessity  for  ballets  and  pantomimes; 
but  the  last  management  had  so  long  been  bankrupt,  that 
they  could  not  afford  to  keep  a  transposer  and  copyist.  Pons 
therefore  introduced  Schmucke  to  the  company  as  copier  of 
music,  a  humble  calling  which  requires  no  small  musical  knowl- 
edge ;  and  Schmucke,  acting  on  Pons's  advice,  came  to  an  un- 
derstanding with  the  chef -de-service  at  the  Opera-Comique,  so 
saving  himself  the  clerical  drudgery. 

The  partnership  between  Pons  and  Schmucke  produced 
one  brilliant  result.  Schmucke  being  a  German,  harmony 
was  his  strong  point ;  he  looked  over  the  instrumentation  of 
Pons's  compositions,  and  Pons  provided  the  airs.  Here  and 
there  an  amateur  among  the  audience  admired  the  new  pieces 
of  music  which  served  as  accompaniment  to  two  or  three 
great  successes,  but  they  attributed  the  improvement  vaguely 
to  "  progress."  No  one  cared  to  know  the  composer's  name ; 
like  occupants  of  the  baignoires,  lost  to  view  of  the  house,  to 
gain  a  view  of  the  stage.  Pons  and  Schmucke  eclipsed  them- 
selves by  their  success.  In  Paris  (especially  since  the  Revolu- 
tion of  July)  no  one  can  hope  to  succeed  unless  he  will  push 
his  way  quibuscumque  viis  and  with  all  his  might  through  a 
formidable  host  of  competitors ;  but  for  this  feat  a  man  needs 
thews  and  sinews,  and  our  two  friends,  be  it  remembered,  had 
that  affection  of  the  heart  which  cripples  all  ambitious  effort. 

Pons,  as  a  rule,  only  went  to  his  theater  towards  eight 
o'clock,  when  the  piece  in  favor  came  on,  and  overtures  and 
accompaniments  needed  the  strict  ruling  of  the  baton ;  most 
minor  theaters  are  lax  in  such  matters,  and  Pons  felt  the 
more  at  ease  because  he  himself  had  been  by  no  means  grasp- 
ing in  all  his  dealings  with  the  management ;  and  Schmucke, 
if  need  be,  could  take  his  place.  Time  went  by,  and  Schmucke 
became  an  institution  in  the  orchestra ;  the  Illustrious  Gaudis- 
sart said  nothing,  but  he  was  well  aware  of  the  value  of  Pons's 


82  COUSIN  PONS 

collaborator.  He  was  obliged  to  include  a  pianoforte  in  the 
orchestra  (following  the  example  of  the  leading  theaters); 
the  instrument  was  placed  beside  the  conductor's  chair,  and 
Schmucke  played  without  increase  of  salary — a  volunteer 
supernumerary.  As  Schmucke's  character,  his  utter  lack  of 
ambition  or  pretense,  became  known,  the  orchestra  recognized 
him  as  one  of  themselves ;  and  as  time  went  on,  he  was  in- 
trusted with  the  often  needed  miscellaneous  musical  instru- 
ments which  form  no  part  of  the  regular  band  of  a  boulevard 
theater.  For  a  very  small  addition  to  his  stipend,  Schmucke 
played  the  viola  d'amore,  hautboy,  violoncello,  and  harp,  as 
well  as  the  piano,  the  castanets  for  the  cachucha,  the  bells, 
saxhorn,  and  the  like.  If  the  Germans  cannot  draw  harmony 
from  the  mighty  instruments  of  Liberty,  yet  to  play  all  in- 
struments of  music  comes  to  them  by  nature. 

The  two  old  artists  were  exceedingly  popular  at  the 
theater,  and  took  its  ways  philosophically.  They  had  put, 
as  it  were,  scales  over  their  eyes,  lest  they  should  see  the  of- 
fenses that  needs  must  come  when  a  corps  de  ballet  is  blended 
with  actors  and  actresses,  one  of  the  most  trying  combina- 
tions ever  created  by  the  laws  of  supply  and  demand  for  the 
torment  of  managers,  authors,  and  composers  alike. 

Everyone  esteemed  Pons  with  his  kindness  and  his  modesty, 
his  great  self-respect  and  respect  for  others ;  for  a  pure  and 
limpid  life  wins  something  like  admiration  from  the  worst 
nature  in  every  social  sphere,  and  in  Paris  a  fair  virtue  meets 
with  something  of  the  success  of  a  large  diamond,  so  great 
a  rarity  it  is.  No  actor,  no  dancer  however  brazen,  would 
have  indulged  in  the  mildest  practical  joke  at  the  expense  of 
either  Pons  or  Schmucke. 

Pons  very  occasionally  put  in  an  appearance  in  the  foyer; 
but  all  that  Schmucke  knew  of  the  theater  was  the  under- 
ground passage  from  the  street  door  to  the  orchestra.  Some- 
times, however,  during  an  interval,  the  good  German  would 
venture  to  make  a  survey  of  the  house  and  ask  a  few  ques- 
tions of  the  first  flute,  a  young  fellow  from  Strasbourg,  who 
came  of  a  German  family  at  Kehl.  Gradually  under  the 
flute's  tuition  Schmucke's  childlike  imagination  acquired  a 
certain  amount  of  knowledge  of  the  world;  he  could  believe 


COUSIN  PONS  23 

In  the  existence  of  that  fabulous  creature  the  lorette,  the  pos- 
sibility of  "  marriages  at  the  Thirteenth  Arrondissement," 
the  vagaries  of  the  leading  lady,  and  the  contraband  traffic 
carried  on  by  box-openers.  In  his  eyes  the  more  harmless 
forms  of  vice  were  the  lov/est  depths  of  Babylonish  iniquity; 
he  did  not  believe  the  stories,  he  smiled  at  them  for  grotesque 
inventions.  The  ingenious  reader  can  see  that  Pons  and 
Schmucke  were  exploited,  to  use  a  word  much  in  fashion ;  but 
what  they  lost  in  money  they  gained  in  consideration  and 
kindly  treatment. 

It  was  after  the  success  of  the  ballet  with  which  a  run  of 
success  began  for  the  Gaudissart  Company  that  the  man- 
agement presented  Pons  with  a  piece  of  plate — a  group  of  fig- 
ures attributed  to  Benvenuto  Cellini.  The  alarming  costli- 
ness of  the  gift  caused  talk  in  the  green-room.  It  was  a  mat- 
ter of  twelve  hundred  francs !  Pons,  poor  honest  soul,  was 
for  returning  the  present,  and  Gaudissart  had  a  world  of 
trouble  to  persuade  him  to  keep  it. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  manager  afterwards,  when  he  told  his 
partner  of  the  interview,  "  if  we  could  only  find  actors  up  to 
that  sample." 

In  their  joint  life,  outwardly  so  quiet,  there  was  the  one 
disturbing  element — the  weakness  to  which  Pons  sacrificed, 
the  insatiable  craving  to  dine  out.  Whenever  Schmucke  hap- 
pened to  be  at  home  while  Pons  was  dressing  for  the  evening, 
the  good  German  would  bewail  this  deplorable  habit. 

"  Gif  only  he  vas  ony  fatter  vor  it !  "  he  many  a  time  cried. 

And  Schmucke  would  dream  of  curing  his  friend  of  his 
degrading  vice,  for  a  true  friend's  instinct  in  all  that  belongs 
to  the  inner  life  is  unerring  as  a  dog's  sense  of  smell ;  a  friend 
knows  by  intuition  the  trouble  in  his  friend's  soul,  and  guesses 
at  the  cause  and  ponders  it  in  his  heart. 

Pons,  who  always  wore  a  diamond  ring  on  the  little  finger 
of  his  right  hand,  an  ornament  permitted  In  the  time  of  the 
Empire  but  ridiculous  to-day — Pons,  who  belonged  to  the 
"troubadour  time,"  the  sentimental  period  of  the  First  Em- 
pire, was  too  much  a  child  of  his  age,  too  much  of  a  French- 
man to  wear  the  expression  of  divine  serenity  which  softened 
Schmucke's  hideous  ugliness.     From  Pons's  melancholy  looks, 


M  COUSIN  PONS 

Schmucke  knew  that  the  profession  of  parasite  was  growing 
daily  more  difficult  and  painful.  And,  in  fact,  in  that  month 
of  October  1844,  the  number  of  houses  at  which  Pons  dined 
was  naturally  much  restricted;  reduced  to  move  round  and 
round  the  family  circle,  he  had  used  the  word  family  in  far 
too  wide  a  sense,  as  will  shortly  be  seen. 

M.  Camusot,  the  rich  silk  mercer  of  the  Rue  des  Bourdon- 
nais,  had  married  Pons's  first  cousin.  Mile.  Pons,  only  child 
and  heiress  of  one  of  the  well-known  firm  of  Pons  Brothers, 
court  embroiderers.  Pons's  own  father  and  mother  retired 
from  a  firm  founded  before  the  Revolution  of  1789,  leaving 
their  capital  in  the  business  until  Mile.  Pons's  father  sold  it 
in  1815  to  a  M.  Rivet.  M.  Camusot  had  since  lost  his  wife 
and  married  again,  and  retired  from  business  some  ten  years, 
and  now  in  1844  he  was  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  a 
deputy,  and  what  not.  But  the  Camusot  clan  were  friendly ; 
and  Pons,  good  man,  still  considered  that  he  was  some 
kind  of  cousin  to  the  children  of  the  second  marriage, 
who  were  not  relations,  or  even  connected  with  him  in  any 
way. 

The  second  Mme.  Camusot  being  a  Mile.  Cardot,  Pons  in- 
troduced himself  as  a  relative  into  the  tolerabl}^  numerous 
Cardot  family,  a  second  bourgeois  tribe  which,  taken  with  its 
connections,  formed  quite  as  strong  a  clan  as  the  Camusots ; 
for  Cardot  the  notary  (brother  of  the  second  Mme.  Camusot) 
had  married  a  Mile.  Chiff reville ;  and  the  well-known  family 
of  Chiff  reville,  the  leading  firm  of  manufacturing  chemists, 
was  closely  connected  with  the  wholesale  drug  trade,  of  which 
M.  Anselme  Popinot  was  for  many  years  the  undisputed  head, 
until  the  Revolution  of  July  plunged  him  into  the  very  center 
of  the  djrnastic  movement,  as  everybody  knows.  So  Pons,  in 
the  wake  of  the  Camusots  and  Cardots,  reached  the  Chiff re- 
villes,  and  thence  the  Popinots,  always  in  the  character  of  a 
cousin's  cousin. 

The  above  concise  statement  of  Pons's  relations  with  his  en- 
tertainers explains  how  it  came  to  pass  that  an  old  musician 
was  received  in  1844  as  one  of  the  family  in  the  houses  of 
four  distinguished  persons— to  wit,  M.  le  Comte  Popinot,  peer 
of  France,  and  twice  in  office;  M.  Cardot,  retired  notary, 


COUSIN  PONS  25 

mayor  and  deputy  of  an  arrondissement  in  Paris  ;  M.  Camusot 
senior,  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Trade  and  the  Municipal 
Council  of  Paris,  and  a  deputy  on  the  high  way  to  the  Upper 
Chamber  and  a  peerage ;  and  lastly,  M.  Camusot  de  Marville, 
Camusot's  son  by  his  first  marriage,  and  Pons's  one  genuine 
relation,  albeit  even  he  was  a  first  cousin  once  removed. 

This  Camusot,  President  of  a  Chamber  of  the  Court  of 
Appeal  in  Paris,  had  taken  the  name  of  his  estate  at  Marville 
to  distinguish  himself  from  his  father  and  a  younger  half- 
brother. 

Cardot,  the  retired  notary,  had  married  his  daughter 
to  his  successor,  whose  name  was  Berthier;  and  Pons,  trans- 
ferred as  part  of  the  connection,  acquired  a  right  to  dine 
with  the  Berthiers  "  in  the  presence  of  a  notary,"  as  he 
put  it. 

This  was  the  bourgeois  empyrean  which  Pons  called  his 
"  family,"  that  upper  world  in  which  he  so  painfully  reserved 
his  right  to  a  knife  and  fork. 

Of  all  these  houses,  some  ten  in  all,  the  one  in  which  Pons 
ought  to  have  met  with  the  kindest  reception  should  by  rights 
have  been  his  own  cousin's ;  and,  indeed,  he  paid  most  atten- 
tion to  President  Camusot's  family.  But,  alas !  Mme.  Cam- 
usot de  Marville,  daughter  of  the  Sieur  Thirion,  usher  of  the 
cabinet  to  Louis  XVIII.  and  Charles  X.,  had  never  taken  very 
kindly  to  her  husband's  first  cousin,  once  removed.  Pons  had 
tried  to  soften  this  formidable  relative;  he  wasted  his  time; 
for  in  spite  of  the  pianoforte  lessons  which  he  gave  gratu- 
itously to  Mile.  Camusot,  a  young  woman  with  hair  some- 
what inclined  to  red,  it  was  impossible  to  make  a  musician  of 
her. 

And  now,  at  this  very  moment,  as  he  walked  with  that 
precious  object  in  his  hand.  Pons  was  bound  for  the  Presi- 
dent's house,  where  he  always  felt  as  if  he  were  at  the  Tuileries 
itself,  so  heavily  did  the  solemn  green  curtains,  the  carmelite- 
brown  hangings,  thick  piled  carpets,  heavy  furniture,  and 
general  atmosphere  of  magisterial  severity  oppress  his  soul. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  he  felt  more  at  home  in  the  Hotel 
Popinot,  Rue  Basse-du-Rempart,  probably  because  it  was  full 
of  works  of  art ;  for  the  master  of  the  house,  since  he  entered 


26  COUSIN  PONS 

public  life,  had  acquired  a  mania  for  collecting  beautiful 
things,  by  way  of  contrast  no  doubt,  for  a  politician  is 
obhged  to  pay  for  secret  services  of  the  ugliest  kind. 

President  de  Marville  lived  in  the  Rue  de  Hanovre,  in  a 
house  which  his  wife  had  bought  ten  years  previously,  on  the 
death  of  her  parents,  for  the  Sieur  and  Dame  Thirion  left 
their  daughter  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs, 
the  savings  of  a  lifetime.  With  its  north  aspect,  the  house 
looks  gloomy  enough  seen  from  the  street,  but  the  back  looks 
towards  the  south  over  the  courtyard,  with  a  rather  pretty 
garden  beyond  it.  As  the  President  occupied  the  whole  of 
the  first  floor,  once  the  abode  of  a  great  financier  of  the  time 
of  Louis  XIV.,  and  the  second  was  let  to  a  wealthy  old  lady, 
the  house  wore  a  look  of  dignified  repose  befitting  a  magis- 
trate's residence.  President  Camusot  had  invested  ^1  that 
he  inherited  from  his  mother,  together  with  the  savings  of 
twenty  years,  in  the  purchase  of  the  splendid  Marville  estate ; 
a  chateau  (as  fine  a  relic  of  the  past  as  you  will  find  to-day  in 
Normandy)  standing  in  a  hundred  acres  of  park  land,  and  a 
fine  dependent  farm,  nominally  bringing  in  twelve  thousand 
francs  per  annum,  though,  as  it  cost  the  President  at  least  a 
thousand  crowns  to  keep  up  a  state  almost  princely  in  our 
days,  his  yearly  revenue,  "  all  told,"  as  the  saying  is,  was 
a  bare  nine  thousand  francs.  With  this  and  his  salary,  the 
President's  income  amounted  to  about  twenty  thousand 
francs;  but  though  to  all  appearance  a  wealthy  man,  espe- 
cially as  one-half  of  his  father's  property  would  one  day 
revert  to  him  as  the  only  child  of  the  first  marriage,  he  was 
obliged  to  live  in  Paris  as  befitted  his  official  position,  and  M. 
and  Mme.  de  Marville  spent  almost  the  whole  of  their  incomes. 
Indeed,  before  the  year  1834<  they  felt  pinched. 

This  family  schedule  sufficiently  explains  why  Mile,  de 
Marville,  aged  three-and-twenty,  was  still  unwed,  in  spite  of  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  of  dowry  and  tempting  prospects, 
frequently,  skillfully,  but  so  far  vainly,  held  out.  For  the 
past  five  years  Pons  had  listened  to  Mme.  la  Presidente's 
lamentations  as  she  beheld  one  young  lawyer  after  another  led 
to  the  altar,  while  all  the  newly  appointed  judges  at  the 
Tribunal  were  fathers  of  famihes  already;  and  she,  all  this 


COUSIN  PONS  27 

time,  had  displayed  Mile,  de  Marville's  brilliant  expectations 
before  the  undazzled  eyes  of  young  Vicomte  Popinot,  eldest 
son  of  the  great  man  of  the  drug  trade,  he  of  whom  it  was 
said  by  the  envious  tongues  of  the  neighborhood  of  the  Rue 
des  Lombards,  that  the  Revolution  of  July  had  been  brought 
about  at  least  as  much  for  his  particular  benefit  as  for  the 
sake  of  the  Orleans  branch. 

Arrived  at  the  comer  of  the  Rue  de  Choiseul  and  the  Rue 
de  Hanovre,  Pons  suffered  from  the  inexplicable  emotions 
which  torment  clear  consciences ;  from  a  panic  terror  such  as 
the  worst  of  scoundrels  might  feel  at  sight  of  a  policeman,  an 
agony  caused  solely  by  a  doubt  as  to  Mme.  de  Marville's 
probable  reception  of  him.  That  grain  of  sand,  grating 
continually  on  the  fibers  of  his  heart,  so  far  from  losing  its 
angles,  grew  more  and  more  jagged,  and  the  family  in  the 
Rue  de  Hanovre  always  sharpened  the  edges.  Indeed,  their 
unceremonious  treatment  and  Pons's  depreciation  in  value 
among  them  had  affected  the  servants ;  and  while  they  did  not 
exactly  fail  in  respect,  they  looked  on  the  poor  relation  as  a 
kind  of  beggar. 

Pons's  arch-enemy  In  the  house  was  the  ladles'-maid,  a  thin 
and  wizened  spinster,  Madeleine  Vivet  by  name.  This  Made- 
leine, in  spite  of,  nay,  perhaps  on  the  strength  of,  a  pimpled 
complexion  and  a  viper-like  length  of  spine,  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  some  day  she  would  be  Mme.  Pons.  But  in  vain 
she  dangled  twenty-thousand  francs  of  savings  before  the  old 
bachelor's  eyes ;  Pons  had  declined  happiness  accompanied  by 
so  many  pimples.  From  that  time  forth  the  Dido  of  the  ante- 
chamber, who  fain  had  called  her  master  and  mistress 
*'  cousin,"  wreaked  her  spite  in  petty  ways  upon  the  poor 
musician.  She  heard  him  on  the  stairs,  and  cried  audibly, 
"  Oh !  here  comes  the  sponger !  "  She  stinted  him  of  wine 
when  she  waited  at  dinner  in  the  footman's  absence ;  she  filled 
the  water-glass  to  the  brim,  to  give  him  the  difficult  task  of 
lifting  it  without  spilling  a  drop ;  or  she  would  pass  the  old 
man  over  altogether,  till  the  mistress  of  the  house  would  re- 
mind her  (and  in  what  a  tone! — it  brought  the  color  to  the 
poor  cousin's  face)  ;  or  she  would  spill  the  gravy  over  his 
clothes.     In  short,  she  waged  petty  war  after  the  manner  of  a 


2S  COUSIN  PONS 

petty  nature,  knoAving  that  she  could  annoy  an  unfortunate 
superior  with  impunity. 

Madeleine  Vivet  was  Mme.  de  Marville's  maid  and  house- 
keeper. She  had  lived  with  M.  and  Mme.  Camusot  de  Mar- 
ville  since  their  marriage ;  she  had  shared  the  early  struggles 
in  the  provinces  when  M.  Camusot  was  a  judge  at  Alen9on; 
she  had  helped  them  to  exist  when  M.  Camusot,  President  of 
the  Tribunal  of  Mantes,  came  to  Paris,  in  1828,  to  be  an  ex- 
amining magistrate.  She  was,  therefore,  too  much  one  of  the 
family  not  to  wish,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  to  revenge  herself 
upon  them.  Beneath  her  desire  to  play  a  trick  upon  her 
haughty  and  ambitious  mistress,  and  to  call  her  master  her 
cousin,  there  surely  lurked  a  long-stifled  hatred,  built  up 
like  an  avalanche,  upon  the  pebble  of  some  past  grievance. 

"  Here  comes  your  M.  Pons,  Madame,  still  wearing  that 
spencer  of  his  !  "  Madeleine  came  to  tell  the  Presidente,  "  He 
really  might  tell  me  how  he  manages  to  make  it  look  the  same 
for  five-and-twenty  years  together." 

Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville,  hearing  a  man's  footstep  in 
the  little  drawing-room  between  the  large  drawing-room  and 
her  bedroom,  looked  at  her  daughter  and  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"  You  always  make  these  announcements  so  cleverly  that 
you  leave  me  no  time  to  think,  Madeleine." 

"  Jean  is  out,  Madame ;  I  was  all  alone ;  M.  Pons  rang 
the  bell,  I  opened  the  door;  and  as  he  is  almost  one  of  the 
family,  I  could  not  prevent  him  from  coming  after  me. 
There  he  is,  taking  off  his  spencer." 

"  Poor  little  puss ! "  said  the  Presidente,  addressing  her 
daughter,  "  we  are  caught.  We  shall  have  to  dine  at  home 
now. — Let  us  see,"  she  added,  seeing  that  the  "  dear  puss  " 
wore  a  piteous  face ;  "  must  we  get  rid  of  him  for  good  ?  " 

"  Oh !  poor  man !  "  cried  Mile.  Camusot,  "  deprive  him  of 
one  of  his  dinners  ?  " 

Somebody  coughed  significantly  in  the  next  room  by  way 
of  warning  that  he  could  hear. 

"  Very  well,  let  him  come  in !  "  said  Mme.  Camusot,  look- 
ing at  Madeleine  with  another  shrug. 

"  You  are  here  so  early,  cousin,  that  you  have  come  in  upon 


COUSIN  PONS  29 

us  just  as  mother  was  about  to  dress,"  said  Cecile  Camusot 
in  a  coaxing  tone.  But  Cousin  Pons  had  caught  sight  of  the 
Presidente's  shrug,  and  felt  so  cruelly  hurt  that  he  could  not 
find  a  compliment,  and  contented  himself  with  a  profound  re- 
mark, "  You  are  always  charming,  my  little  cousin." 

Then,  turning  to  the  mother,  he  continued,  with  a  bow — 

"  You  will  not  take  it  amiss,  I  think,  if  I  have  come  a  little 
earlier  than  usual,  dear  cousin;  I  have  brought  something 
for  you ;  you  once  did  me  the  pleasure  of  asking  me  for  it," 

Poor  Pons !  Every  time  he  addressed  the  President,  the 
President's  wife,  or  Cecile  as  *'  cousin,"  he  gave  them  ex- 
cruciating annoyance.  As  he  spoke,  he  drew  a  long,  narrow 
cherry-wood  box,  marvelously  carved,  from  his  coat-pocket. 

"  Oh,  did  I.'' — I  had  forgotten,"  the  lady  answered  dryly. 

It  was  a  heartless  speech,  was  it  not?  Did  not  those  few 
words  deny  all  merit  to  the  pains  taken  for  her  by  the  cousin 
whose  one  offense  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  was  a  poor  relation? 

"  But  it  is  very  kind  of  you,  cousin,"  she  added.  "  How 
much  do  I  owe  you  for  this  little  trifle?  " 

Pons  quivered  inwardly  at  the  question.  He  had  meant  the 
trinket  as  a  return  for  his  dinners. 

"  I  thought  that  you  would  permit  me  to  offer  it  you " 

he  faltered  out. 

"  What?  "  said  Mme.  Camusot.  "  Oh!  but  there  need  be 
no  ceremony  between  us ;  we  know  each  other  well  enough  to 
wash  our  linen  among  ourselves.  I  know  very  well  that  you 
are  not  rich  enough  to  give  more  than  you  get.  And  to  go  no 
further,  it  is  quite  enough  that  you  should  have  spent  a  good 
deal  of  time  in  running  about  among  the  dealers " 

"  If  you  were  asked  to  pay  the  full  price  of  the  fan,  my 
dear  cousin,  you  would  not  care  to  have  it,"  answered  poor 
Pons,  hurt  and  insulted ;  "  it  is  one  of  Watteau's  master- 
pieces, painted  on  both  sides ;  but  you  may  be  quite  easy, 
cousin,  I  did  not  give  one-hundredth  part  of  its  value  as  a 
work  of  art." 

To  tell  a  rich  man  that  he  is  poor !  you  might  as  well  tell 
the  Archbishop  of  Granada  that  his  homihes  show  signs  of 
senility.  Mme.  la  Presidente,  proud  of  her  husband's  posi- 
tion, of  the  estate  of  Marville,  and  her  invitations  to  court 


30  COUSIN  PONS 

balls,  was  keenly  susceptible  on  this  point;  and  what  was 
worse,  the  remark  came  from  a  poverty-stricken  musician  to 
whom  she  had  been  charitable. 

"  Then  the  people  of  whom  you  buy  things  of  this  kind  are 
very  stupid,  are  they?  "  she  asked  quickly, 

"  Stupid  dealers  are  unknown  in  Paris,"  Pons  answered  al- 
most dryly. 

"  Then  you  must  be  very  clever,"  put  in  Cecile  by  way  of 
calming  the  dispute. 

"  Clever  enough  to  know  a  Lancret,  a  Watteau,  a  Pater,  or 
Greuze  when  I  see  it,  little  cousin;  but  anxious,  most  of  all, 
to  please  your  dear  mamma." 

Mme.  de  Marville,  ignorant  and  vain,  was  unwilling  to  ap- 
pear to  receive  the  slightest  trifle  from  the  parasite ;  and  here 
her  ignorance  served  her  admirably,  she  did  not  even  know 
the  name  of  Watteau.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  if  anything 
can  measure  the  extent  of  the  collector's  passion,  which,  in 
truth,  is  one  of  the  most  deeply  seated  of  all  passions,  rivaling 
the  very  vanity  of  the  author — if  anything  can  give  an  idea 
of  the  lengths  to  which  a  collector  will  go,  it  is  the  audacity 
which  Pons  displayed  on  this  occasion,  as  he  held  his  own 
against  his  lady  cousin  for  the  first  time  in  twenty  years. 
He  was  amazed  at  his  own  boldness.  He  made  Cecile  see  the 
beauties  of  the  delicate  carving  on  the  sticks  of  this  wonder, 
and  as  he  talked  to  her  his  face  grew  serene  and  gentle  again. 
But  without  some  sketch  of  the  Presidente,  it  is  impossible 
fully  to  understand  the  perturbation  of  heart  from  which 
Pons  suffered, 

Mme.  de  Marville  had  been  short  and  fair,  plump  and 
fresh ;  at  forty-six  she  was  as  short  as  ever,  but  she  looked 
dried  up.  An  arched  forehead  and  thin  lips,  that  had  been 
softly  colored  once,  lent  a  soured  look  to  a  face  naturally  dis- 
dainful, and  now  grown  hard  and  unpleasant  with  a  long 
course  of  absolute  domestic  rule.  Time  had  deepened  her 
fair  hair  to  a  harsh  chestnut  hue;  the  pride  of  office,  in- 
tensified by  suppressed  envy,  looked  out  of  eyes  that  had  lost 
none  of  their  brightness  nor  their  satirical  expression.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville  felt  almost  poor  in 
the  society  of  self-made  wealthy  bourgeois  with  whom  Pons 


COUSIN  PONS  31 

dined.  She  could  not  forgive  the  rich  retail  druggist,  ex- 
president  of  the  Commercial  Court,  for  his  successive  eleva- 
tions as  deputy,  member  of  the  Government,  count,  and  peer 
of  France.  She  could  not  forgive  her  father-in-law  for  put- 
ting himself  forward  instead  of  his  eldest  son  as  deputy  of 
his  arrondissement  after  Popinot's  promotion  to  the  peerage. 
After  eighteen  years  of  services  in  Paris,  she  was  still  wait- 
ing for  the  post  of  Councilor  of  the  Court  of  Cassation  for 
her  husband.  It  was  Camusot's  own  incompetence,  well 
known  at  the  Law  Courts,  which  excluded  him  from  the  Coun- 
cil. The  Home  Secretary  of  1844  even  regretted  Camusot's 
nomination  to  the  presidency  of  the  Court  of  Indictments  in 
1834,  though,  thanks  to  his  past  experience  as  an  exam- 
ining magistrate,  he  made  himself  useful  in  drafting  decrees. 

These  disappointments  had  told  upon  Mme.  de  Marville, 
who,  moreover,  had  formed  a  tolerably  correct  estimate  of  her 
husband.  A  temper  naturally  shrewish  was  soured  till  she 
grew  positively  terrible.  She  was  not  old  but  she  had  aged ; 
she  deliberately  set  herself  to  extort  by  fear  all  that  the  world 
was  inclined  to  refuse  her,  and  was  harsh  and  rasping  as  a 
file.  Caustic  to  excess,  she  had  few  friends  among  women ; 
she  surrounded  herself  with  prim,  elderly  matrons  of  her  own 
stamp,  who  lent  each  other  mutual  support,  and  people  stood 
in  awe  of  her.  As  for  poor  Pons,  his  relations  with  this  fiend 
in  petticoats  were  very  much  those  of  a  schoolboy  with  the 
master  whose  one  means  of  communication  is  the  ferule. 

The  Presidente  had  no  idea  of  the  value  of  the  gift.  She 
was  puzzled  by  her  cousin's  sudden  access  of  audacity. 

"  Then,  where  did  you  find  this.?  "  inquired  Cecile,  as  she 
looked  closely  at  the  trinket. 

"  In  the  Rue  de  Lappe.  A  dealer  in  second-hand  furniture 
there  had  just  brought  it  back  with  him  from  a  chateau  that 
is  being  pulled  down  near  Dreux,  Aulnay.  Mme.  de  Pom- 
padour used  to  spend  part  of  her  time  there  before  she  built 
Menars.  Some  of  the  most  splendid  wood-carving  ever 
known  has  been  saved  from  destruction;  Lienard  (our  most 
famous  living  wood-carver)  has  kept  a  couple  of  oval  frames 
for  models,  as  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  the  art,  so  fine  it  is. — 
There  were  treasures  in  that  place.     My  man  found  the  fan 


S2  COUSIN  PONS 

in  the  drawer  of  an  inlaid  what-not,  which  I  should  certainly 
have  bought  if  I  were  collecting  things  of  the  kind,  but  it  is 
quite  out  of  the  question — a  single  piece  of  Riesener's  fur- 
niture is  worth  three  or  four  thousand  francs !  People  here 
in  Paris  are  just  beginning  to  find  out  that  the  famous  French 
and  German  marquetry  workers  of  the  sixteenth,  seventeenth, 
and  eighteenth  centuries  composed  perfect  pictures  in  wood. 
It  is  a  collector's  business  to  be  ahead  of  the  fashion.  Why, 
in  five  years'  time,  the  Frankenthal  ware,  which  I  have  been 
collecting  these  twenty  years,  will  fetch  twice  the  price  of 
Sevres  pate  tendre." 

"  What  is  Frankenthal  ware.''  "  asked  Cecile. 

"  That  is  the  name  for  the  porcelain  made  by  the  Elector 
of  the  Palatinate;  it  dates  further  back  than  our  manu- 
factory at  Sevres;  just  as  the  famous  gardens  at  Heidelberg, 
laid  waste  by  Turenne,  had  the  bad  luck  to  exist  before  the 
gardens  of  Versailles.  Sevres  copied  Frankenthal  to  a  large 
extent. — In  justice  to  the  Germans,  it  must  be  said  that  they 
have  done  admirable  work  in  Saxony  and  in  the  Palatinate.'' 

Mother  and  daughter  looked  at  one  another  as  if  Pons 
were  speaking  Chinese.  No  one  can  imagine  how  ignorant 
and  exclusive  Parisians  are;  they  only  learn  what  they  are 
taught,  and  that  only  when  they  choose. 

"  And  how  do  you  know  the  Frankenthal  ware  when  you 
see  it.?  " 

"  Eh  !  by  the  mark !  "  cried  Pons  with  enthusiasm.  "  There 
is  a  mark  on  every  one  of  those  exquisite  masterpieces. 
Frankenthal  ware  is  marked  with  a  C  and  T  (for  Charles 
Theodore)  interlaced  and  crowned.  On  old  Dresden  china 
there  are  two  crossed  swords  and  the  number  of  the  order  in 
gilt  figures.  Vincennes  bears  a  hunting-horn ;  Vienna,  a  V 
closed  and  barred.  You  can  tell  Berlin  by  the  two  bars, 
Mayence  by  the  wheel,  and  Sevres  by  the  two  crossed  L's. 
The  queen's  porcelain  is  marked  A  for  Antoinette,  with  a 
royal  crown  above  it.  In  the  eighteenth  century  all  the 
crowned  heads  of  Europe  had  rival  porcelain  factories,  and 
workmen  were  kidnaped.  Watteau  designed  services  for 
the  Dresden  factory ;  they  fetch  frantic  prices  at  the  present 
day.     One  has  to  know  what  one  is  about  with  them  too,  for 


COUSIN  PONS  SB 

they  are  turning  out  imitations  now  at  Dresden.  Wonderful 
things  they  used  to  make;  they  will  never  make  the  like 
again " 

"  Oh !  pshaw !  " 

"  No,  cousin.  Some  inlaid  work  and  some  kinds  of  porce- 
lain will  never  be  made  again,  just  as  there  will  never  be 
another  Rafael,  nor  Titian,  nor  Rembrandt,  nor  Van  Eyck, 
nor  Cranach.  .  .  .  Well,  now !  there  are  the  Chinese ;  they 
are  very  ingenious,  very  clever;  they  make  modern  copies  of 
their  '  grand  mandarin  '  porcelain,  as  it  is  called.  But  a 
pair  of  vases  of  genuine  old  *  grand  mandarin,'  vases  of  the 
largest  size,  are  worth  six,  eight,  and  ten  thousand  francs, 
while  you  can  buy  the  modern  replicas  for  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred!" 

"  You  are  joking !  " 

"  You  are  astonished  at  the  prices,  but  that  is  nothing, 
cousin.  A  dinner-service  of  Sevres  pate  tendre  (and  pate 
tendre  is  not  porcelain) — a  complete  dinner-service  of  Sevres 
pate  tendre  for  twelve  persons — is  not  merely  worth  a  hundred 
thousand  francs,  but  that  is  the  price  charged  on  the  invoice. 
Such  a  dinner-service  cost  fifty  thousand  francs  at  Sevres  in 
1750 ;  I  have  seen  the  original  invoices." 

"  But  let  us  go  back  to  this  fan,"  said  Cecile.  Evidently 
in  her  opinion  the  trinket  was  an  old-fashioned  thing. 

"  You  can  understand  that  as  soon  as  your  dear  mamma 
did  me  the  honor  of  asking  for  a  fan,  I  went  the  round  of  all 
the  curiosity  shops  in  Paris,  but  I  found  nothing  fine  enough. 
I  wanted  nothing  less  than  a  masterpiece  for  the  dear 
Presidente,  and  thought  of  giving  her  one  that  once  belonged 
to  Marie  Antoinette,  the  most  beautiful  of  all  celebrated  fans. 
But  yesterday  I  was  dazzled  by  this  divine  chef-d'oeuvre,  which 
certainly  must  have  been  ordered  by  Louis  XV.  himself.  Do 
you  ask  how  I  came  to  look  for  fans  in  the  Rue  de  Lappe, 
among  an  Auvergnat's  stock  of  brass  and  iron  and  ormolu 
furniture.^  Well,  I  myself  believe  that  there  is  an  intelligence 
in  works  of  art ;  they  know  art-lovers,  they  call  to  them — 
'  Cht-tt ! '  " 

Mme.  de  Marville  shrussed  her  shoulders  and  looked  at 
her  daughter;  Pons  did  not  notice  the  rapid  pantomime. 


34  COUSIN  PONS 

"  I  kiiow  all  those  sharpers,"  continued  Pons,  "  so  I  asked 
him,  'Anything  fresh  to-day,  Daddy  Monistrol?  ' — (for  he 
always  lets  me  look  over  his  lots  before  the  big  buyers  come) 
— and  at  that  he  began  to  tell  me  how  Lienard,  that  did  such 
beautiful  work  for  the  Government  in  the  Chapelle  de  Dreux, 
had  been  at  the  Aulnay  sale  and  rescued  the  carved  panels  out 
of  the  clutches  of  the  Paris  dealers,  while  their  heads  were 
running  on  china  and  inlaid  furniture. — '  I  did  not  do  much 
myself,'  he  went  on,  '  but  I  may  make  my  traveling  expenses 
out  of  this,'  and  he  showed  me  a  what-not ;  a  marvel !  Bou- 
cher's designs  executed  in  marquetry,  and  with  such  art ! — 
One  could  have  gone  down  on  one's  knees  before  it. — '  Look, 
sir,'  he  said,  '  I  have  just  found  this  fan  in  a  little  drawer;  it 
was  locked,  I  had  to  force  it  open.  You  might  tell  me  where  I 
can  sell  it ' — and  with  that  he  brings  me  out  this  little  carved 
cherry-wood  box. — '  See,'  says  he,  '  it  is  the  kind  of  Pom- 
padour that  looks  like  decorated  Grothic' — '  Yes,'  I  told  him, 
'  the  box  is  pretty ;  the  box  might  suit  me ;  but  as  for  the  fan, 
Monistrol,  I  have  no  Mme.  Pons  to  give  the  old  trinket  to, 
and  they  make  very  pretty  new  ones  nowadays ;  you  can  buy 
miracles  of  painting  on  vellum  cheaply  enough.  There  are 
two  thousand  painters  in  Paris,  you  know.' — And  I  opened 
out  the  fan  carelessly,  keeping  down  my  admiration,  looking 
indifferently  at  those  two  exquisite  little  pictures,  touched  off 
with  an  ease  fit  to  send  you  into  raptures.  I  held  Mme.  de 
Pompadour's  fan  in  my  hand  !  Watteau  had  done  his  utmost 
for  this. — '  What  do  you  want  for  the  what-not .^^ ' — *  Oh!  a 
thousand  francs ;  I  have  had  a  bid  already.' — I  offered  him 
a  price  for  the  fan  corresponding  with  the  probable  ex- 
penses of  the  journey.  We  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes, 
and  I  saw  that  I  had  my  man.  I  put  the  fan  back  into  the 
box  lest  my  Auvergnat  should  begin  to  look  at  it,  and  went 
into  ecstasies  over  the  box;  indeed,  it  is  a  jewel. — '  If  I  take 
it,'  said  I,  '  it  is  for  the  sake  of  the  box ;  the  box  tempts  me. 
As  for  the  what-not,  you  will  get  more  than  a  thousand  francs 
for  that.  Just  see  how  the  brass  is  wrought;  it  is  a  model. 
There  is  business  in  it.  .  .  .  It  has  never  been  copied ;  it  is 
a  unique  specimen,  made  solely  for  Mme.  de  Pompadour  ' — 
and  so  on,  till  ray  man,  all  on  fire  for  his  what-not,  forgets  the 


COUSIN  PONS  35 

fan,  and  lets  me  have  it  for  a  mere  trifle,  because  I  have 
pointed  out  the  beauties  of  his  piece  of  Riesener's  furniture. 
So  here  it  is !  but  it  needs  a  great  deal  of  experience  to  make 
such  a  bargain  as  that.  It  is  a  duel,  eye  to  eye ;  and  who  has 
such  eyes  as  a  Jew  or  an  Auvergnat  ?  " 

The  old  artist's  wonderful  pantomime,  his  vivid,  eager  way 
of  telling  the  story  of  the  triumph  of  his  shrewdness  over  the 
dealer's  ignorance,  would  have  made  a  subject  for  a  Dutch 
painter ;  but  it  was  all  thrown  away  upon  the  audience. 
Mother  and  daughter  exchanged  cold,  contemptuous  glances. 
— "  What  an  oddity !  "  they  seemed  to  say. 

"So  it  amuses  you?"  remarked  Mme.  de  Marville.  The 
question  sent  a  cold  chill  through  Pons ;  he  felt  a  strong  desire 
to  slap  the  Presidente. 

"  Why,  my  dear  cousin,  that  is  the  way  to  hunt  down  a 
work  of  art.  You  are  face  to  face  with  antagonists  that 
dispute  the  game  with  you.  It  is  craft  against  craft !  A 
work  of  art  in  the  hands  of  a  Norman,  an  Auvergnat,  or  a 
Jew,  is  like  a  princess  guarded  by  magicians  in  a  fairy 
tale." 

"  And  how  can  you  tell  that  this  is  by  Wat what  do 

you  call  him.''  " 

"  Watteau,  cousin.  One  of  the  greatest  eighteenth  century 
painters  in  France.  Look!  do  you  not  see  that  it  is  his 
work.^*  "  (pointing  to  a  pastoral  scene,  court-shepherd  swains 
and  shepherdesses  dancing  in  a  ring.)  "  The  movement!  the 
hfe  in  it !  the  coloring !  There  it  is — see ! — painted  with  a 
stroke  of  the  brush,  as  a  writing-master  makes  a  flourish  with 
a  pen.  Not  a  trace  of  effort  here !  And,  turn  it  over,  look ! 
— a  ball  in  a  drawing-room.  Summer  and  Winter!  And 
what  ornaments !  and  how  well  preserved  it  is !  The  hinge- 
pin  is  gold,  you  see,  and  on  cleaning  it,  I  found  a  tiny  ruby  at 
either  end." 

"  If  it  is  so,  cousin,  I  could  not  think  of  accepting  such  a 
valuable  present  from  you.  It  would  be  better  to  lay  up  the 
money  for  yourself,"  said  Mme.  de  Marville ;  but  all  the  same, 
she  asked  no  better  than  to  keep  the  splendid  fan. 

"  It  is  time  that  it  should  pass  from  the  service  of  Vice  into 
the  hands  of  Virtue,"  said  the  good  soul,  recovering  his  as- 


36  COUSIN  PONS 

surance.  "  It  has  taken  a  century  to  work  the  miracle.  No 
princess  at  Court,  you  may  be  sure,  will  have  anything  to 
compare  with  it ;  for,  unfortunately,  men  will  do  more  for  a 
Pompadour  than  for  a  virtuous  queen,  such  is  human  nature." 

"  Very  well,"  Mme.  de  Marville  said,  laughing,  "  I  will  ac- 
cept your  present. — Cecile,  my  angel,  go  to  Madeleine  and 
see  that  dinner  is  worthy  of  your  cousin." 

Mme.  de  Marville  wished  to  make  matters  even.  Her  re- 
quest, made  aloud,  in  defiance  of  all  rules  of  good  taste, 
sounded  so  much  like  an  attempt  to  repay  at  once  the  balance 
due  to  the  poor  cousin,  that  Pons  flushed  red,  like  a  girl 
found  out  in  fault.  The  grain  of  sand  was  a  little  too  large ; 
for  some  moments  he  could  only  let  it  work  in  his  heart. 
Cecile,  a  red-haired  young  v/oman,  with  a  touch  of  pedantic 
affectation,  combined  her  father's  ponderous  manner  with  a 
trace  of  her  mother's  hardness.  She  went  and  left  poor  Pons 
face  to  face  with  the  terrible  Presidente. 

"  How  nice  she  is,  my  little  Lili !  "  said  the  mother.  She 
still  called  her  Cecile  by  this  baby  name. 

"  Charming !  "  said  Pons,  twirling  his  thumbs. 

"  I  cannot  understand  these  times  in  which  we  live,"  broke 
out  the  Presidente.  *'  What  is  the  good  of  having  a  Presi- 
dent of  the  Court  of  Appeal  in  Paris  and  a  Commander  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor  for  your  father,  and  for  a  grandfather 
the  richest  wholesale  silk  merchant  in  Paris,  a  deputy,  and  a 
millionaire  that  will  be  a  peer  of  France  some  of  these 
days?" 

The  President's  zeal  for  the  new  Government  had,  in  fact, 
recently  been  rewarded  with  a  commander's  ribbon, — thanks 
to  his  friendship  with  Popinot,  said  the  envious.  Popinot 
himself,  modest  though  he  was,  had,  as  has  been  seen,  ac- 
cepted the  title  of  count,  "  for  his  son's  sake,"  he  told  his 
numerous  friends. 

"  Men  look  for  nothing  but  money  nowadays,"  said  Cousin 
Pons.  "  No  one  thinks  anj'thing  of  you  unless  you  are  rich, 
and " 

"  AVhat  would  it  have  been  if  Heaven  had  spared  my  poor 
little  Charles ! "  cried  the  lady. 

"  Oh,  with  two  children  you  would  be  poor,"  returned  the 


COUSIN  PONS  ST 

cousin.  "  It  practically  means  the  division  of  the  property. 
But  you  need  not  trouble  yourself,  cousin ;  Cecile  is  sure  to 
marry,  sooner  or  later.  She  is  the  most  accomplished  girl  I 
know." 

To  such  depths  had  Pons  fallen  by  adapting  himself  to  the 
company  of  his  entertainers  !  In  their  houses  he  echoed  their 
Ideas,  and  said  the  obvious  thing,  after  the  manner  of  a 
chorus  in  a  Greek  play.  He  did  not  dare  to  give  free  play 
to  the  artist's  originality,  which  had  overflowed  in  bright 
repartee  when  he  was  young;  he  had  effaced  himself,  till  he 
had  almost  lost  his  individuality ;  and  if  the  real  Pons  ap- 
peared, as  he  had  done  a  moment  ago,  he  was  immediately  re- 
pressed. 

"  But  I  myself  was  married  wjth  only  twenty  thousand 
francs  for  my  portion " 

"  In  1819,  cousin.  And  it  was  you^  a  woman  with  a  head 
on  your  shoulders,  and  the  royal  protection  of  Louis  XVIII." 

"  But  still,  my  child  is  a  perfect  angel.  She  is  clever,  she 
has  a  warm  heart,  she  will  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs  on 
her  wedding  day,  to  say  nothing  of  the  most  brilliant  expecta- 
tions ;  and  yet  she  stays  on  our  hands,"  and  so  on  and  so  on. 
For  twenty  minutes,  Mme.  de  Marville  talked  on  about  her- 
self and  her  Cecile,  pitying  herself  after  the  manner  of 
mothers  in  bondage  to  marriageable  daughters. 

Pons  had  dined  at  the  house  every  week  for  twenty  years, 
and  Camusot  de  Marville  was  the  only  cousin  he  had  in  the 
world ;  but  he  had  yet  to  hear  the  first  word  spoken  as  to  his 
own  affairs — nobody  cared  to  know  how  he  lived.  Here  and 
elsewhere  the  poor  cousin  was  a  kind  of  sink  down  which  his 
relatives  poured  domestic  confidences.  His  discretion  was 
well  known ;  indeed,  was  he  not  bound  over  to  silence  when  a 
single  imprudent  word  would  have  shut  the  door  of  ten 
houses  upon  him?  And  he  must  combine  his  role  of  listener 
with  a  second  part;  he  must  applaud  continually,  smile  on 
everyone,  accuse  nobody,  defend  nobody;  from  his  point  of 
view,  everyone  must  be  in  the  right.  And  so,  in  the  house 
of  his  kinsman.  Pons  no  longer  counted  as  a  man ;  he  was  a 
digestive  apparatus. 

In  the  course  of  a  long  tirade,  Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville 


38  COUSIN  PONS 

avowed  with  due  circumspection  that  she  was  prepared  to  take 
almost  any  son-in-law  M-ith  her  eyes  shut.  She  was  even  dis- 
posed to  think  that  at  eight-and-forty  or  so  a  man  with 
twenty  thousand  francs  a  year  was  a  good  match. 

"  Cecile  is  in  her  twenty-third  year.  If  it  should  fall  out 
so  unfortunately  that  she  is  not  married  before  she  is  five  or 
six-and-twenty,  it  will  be  extremely  hard  to  marry  her  at  all. 
When  a  girl  reaches  that  age.  people  want  to  know  why  she 
has  been  so  long  on  hand.  We  are  a  good  deal  talked  about 
in  our  set.  We  have  come  to  an  end  of  all  the  ordinary  ex- 
cuses— '  She  is  so  young. — She  is  so  fond  of  her  father  and 
mother  that  she  doesn't  like  to  leave  them. — She  is  so  happy 
at  home. — She  is  hard  to  please,  she  would  like  a  good 
name '  We  are  beginning  to  look  silly ;  I  feel  that  dis- 
tinctly. And  besides,  Cecile  Is  tired  of  waiting,  poor  child, 
she  suffers " 

"  In  what  way.^*  "  Pons  was  noodle  enough  to  ask. 

*'  Why,  because  It  is  humiliating  to  her  to  see  all  her  girl 
friends  married  before  her,"  repHed  the  mother,  with  a  duen- 
na's  air. 

*'  But,  cousin,  has  anything  happened  since  the  last  time 
that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  dining  here  ?  Why  do  you  think  of 
men  of  eight-and-forty  .^  "  Pons  inquired  humbly. 

"  This  has  happened,"  returned  the  Presidente.  "  We 
were  to  have  had  an  interview  with  a  Court  Councilor;  his 
son  Is  thirty  years  old  and  very  well-to-do,  and  M.  de  Mar- 
ville  would  have  obtained  a  post  in  the  audit -office  for  him  and 
paid  the  money.  The  young  man  is  a  supernumerary  there 
at  present.  And  now  they  tell  us  that  he  has  taken  it  into 
his  head  to  rush  off  to  Italy  in  the  train  of  a  duchess  from  the 
Bal  Mabille.  .  .  .  It  is  nothing  but  a  refusal  in  disguise. 
The  fact  is,  the  young  man's  mother  is  dead;  he  has  an  in- 
come of  thirty  thousand  francs,  and  more  to  come  at  his 
father's  death,  and  they  don't  care  about  the  match  for  him. 
You  have  just  come  in  In  the  middle  of  all  this,  dear  cousin,  so 
you  must  excuse  our  bad  temper." 

While  Pons  was  casting  about  for  the  complimentary  an- 
swer which  Invariably  occurred  to  him  too  late  when  he  was 
afraid  of  his  host,  Madeleine  came  In,  handed  a  folded  note 


COUSIN  PONS  39 

to  the  Presidente,  and  waited  for  an  answer.     The  note  ran 
as  follows : — 

"  Dear  Mamma, — If  we  pretend  that  this  note  comes  to 
you  from  papa  at  the  Palais,  and  that  he  wants  us  both  to 
dine  with  his  friend  because  proposals  have  been  renewed — 
then  the  cousin  will  go,  and  we  can  carry  out  our  plan  of 
going  to  the  Popinots." 

"  Who  brought  the  master's  note?  "  the  Presidente  asked 
quickly. 

"  A  lad  from  the  Salle  du  Palais,"  the  withered  waiting 
woman  unblushingly  answered,  and  her  mistress  knew  at  once 
that  Madeleine  had  woven  the  plot  with  Cecile,  now  at  the  end 
of  her  patience. 

"  Tell  him  that  we  will  both  be  there  at  half-past  five." 

Madeleine  had  no  sooner  left  the  room  than  the  Presidente 
turned  to  Cousin  Pons  with  that  insincere  friendliness  which 
is  about  as  grateful  to  a  sensitive  soul  as  a  mixture  of  milk 
and  vinegar  to  the  palate  of  an  epicure. 

"  Dinner  is  ordered,  dear  cousin ;  you  must  dine  without 
us;  my  husband  has  just  sent  word  from  the  court  that  the 
question  of  the  marriage  has  been  reopened,  and  we  are  to 
dine  with  the  Councilor.  We  need  not  stand  on  ceremony 
at  all.  Do  just  as  if  you  were  at  home.  I  have  no  secrets 
from  you ;  I  am  perfectly  open  with  you,  as  you  see.  I  am 
sure  you  would  not  wish  to  break  off  the  little  darling's  mar- 
riage." 

"  /,  cousin .''  On  the  contrary,  I  should  like  to  find  someone 
for  her ;  but  in  my  circle " 

"  Oh,  that  is  not  at  all  likely,"  said  the  Presidente,  cutting 
him  short  insolently.  "  Then  you  will  stay,  will  you  not.-* 
Cecile  will  keep  you  company  while  I  dress." 

"  Oh !  I  can  dine  somewhere  else,  cousin." 

Cruelly  hurt  though  he  was  by  her  way  of  casting  up  his 
poverty  to  him,  the  prospect  of  being  left  alone  with  the 
servants  was  even  more  alarming. 

"But  why  should  you?  Dinner  is  ready;  you  may  just 
as  well  have  it ;  if  you  do  not,  the  servants  will  eat  it." 


40  COUSIN  PONS 

At  that  atrocious  speech  Pons  started  up  as  if  he  had  re- 
ceived a  shock  from  a  galvanic  battery,  bowed  stifHy  to  the 
lady,  and  went  to  find  his  spencer.  Now,  it  so  happened  that 
the  door  of  Cecile's  bedroom,  beyond  the  little  drawing-room, 
stood  open,  and  looking  into  the  mirror,  he  caught  sight  of 
the  girl  shaking  with  laughter  as  she  gesticulated  and  made 
signs  to  her  mother.  The  old  artist  understood  beyond  a 
doubt  that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  some  cowardly  hoax. 
Pons  went  slowly  down  the  stairs ;  he  could  not  keep 
back  the  tears.  He  understood  that  he  had  been  turned 
out  of  the  house,  but  why  and  wherefore  he  did  not 
know. 

"  I  am  growing  too  old,"  he  told  himself,  "  The  world 
has  a  horror  of  old  age  and  poverty — two  ugly  things.  After 
this  I  will  not  go  anywhere  unless  I  am  asked." 

Heroic  resolve ! 

Downstairs  the  great  gate  was  shut,  as  it  usually  Js  in 
houses  occupied  by  the  proprietor ;  the  kitchen  stood  exactly 
opposite  the  porter's  lodge,  and  the  door  was  open.  Pons 
was  obliged  to  listen  while  Madeleine  told  the  servants  the 
whole  story  amid  the  laughter  of  the  servants.  She  had  not 
expected  him  to  leave  so  soon.  The  footman  loudly  ap- 
plauded a  joke  at  the  expense  of  a  visitor  who  was  always 
coming  to  the  house  and  never  gave  you  more  than  three 
francs  at  the  year's  end. 

"  Yes,"  put  in  the  cook ;  "  but  if  he  cuts  up  rough  and  does 
not  come  back,  there  will  be  three  francs  the  less  for  some  of 
us  on  New  Year's  Day." 

"  Eh !     How  is  he  to  know  ?  "  retorted  the  footman. 

"  Pooh !  "  said  Madeleine,  "  a  little  sooner  or  a  little  later 
— what  difference  does  it  make?  The  people  at  the  other 
houses  where  he  dines  are  so  tired  of  him  that  they  are  going 
to  turn  him  out." 

"  The  gate,  if  you  please !  " 

Madeleine  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  when  they  heard 
the  old  musician's  call  to  the  porter.  It  sounded  like  a  cry  of 
pain.     There  was  a  sudden  silence  in  the  kitchen. 

"  He  heard !  "  the  footman  said. 

"  Well,  and  if  he  did,  so  much  the  worse,  or  rather  so  much 


COUSIN  PONS  41 

the  better,"  retorted  Madeleine.  "  He  is  an  arrant  skin- 
flint." 

Poor  Pons  had  lost  none  of  the  talk  in  the  kitchen ;  he 
heard  it  all,  even  to  the  last  word.  He  made  his  way  home 
along  the  boulevards,  in  the  same  state,  physical  and  mental, 
as  an  old  woman  after  a  desperate  struggle  with  burglars. 
As  he  went  he  talked  to  himself  in  quick  spasmodic  jerks;  his 
honor  had  been  wounded,  and  the  pain  of  it  drove  him  on  as  a 
gust  of  wind  whirls  away  a  straw.  He  found  himself  at  last 
in  the  Boulevard  du  Temple ;  how  he  had  come  thither  he  could 
not  tell.  It  was  five  o'clock,  and,  strange  to  say,  he  had  com- 
pletely lost  his  appetite. 

But  if  the  reader  is  to  understand  the  revolution  which 
Pons's  unexpected  return  at  that  hour  was  to  work  in  the  Rue 
de  Normandie,  the  promised  biography  of  Mme.  Cibot  must  be 
given  in  this  place. 

Anyone  passing  along  the  Rue  de  Normandie  might  be 
pardoned  for  thinking  that  he  was  in  some  small  provincial 
town.  Grass  runs  to  seed  in  the  street,  everybody  knows 
everybody  else,  and  the  sight  of  a  stranger  is  an  event.  The 
houses  date  back  to  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.,  when  there  was 
a  scheme  afoot  for  a  quarter  in  which  every  street  was  to  be 
named  after  a  French  province,  and  all  should  converge  in  a 
handsome  square  to  which  La  France  should  stand  god- 
mother. The  Quartier  de  I'Europe  was  a  revival  of  the  same 
idea ;  history  repeats  itself  everywhere  in  the  world,  and  even 
in  the  world  of  speculation. 

The  house  in  which  the  two  musicians  used  to  live  is  an  old 
mansion  with  a  courtyard  in  front  and  a  garden  at  the  back; 
but  the  front  part  of  the  house  which  gives  upon  the  street 
is  comparatively  modern,  built  during  the  eighteenth  century 
when  the  Marais  was  a  fashionable  quarter.  The  friends 
lived  at  the  back,  on  the  second  floor  of  the  old  part  of  the 
house.  The  whole  building  belonged  to  M.  Pillerault,  an  old 
man  of  eighty,  who  left  matters  very  much  in  the  hands  of 
M.  and  Mme.  Cibot,  his  porters  for  the  past  twenty-six 
years. 

Now,  as  a  porter  cannot  live  by  his  lodge  alone,  the  afore- 
said Cibot  had  other  means  of  gaining  a  livelihood;  and  sup- 


42  COUSIN  PONS 

.plemented  his  five  per  cent,  on  the  rental  and  his  fagot  from 
every  cartload  of  wood  by  his  own  earnings  as  a  tailor.  In 
time  Cibot  ceased  to  work  for  the  master  tailors;  he  made  a 
connection  among  the  little  tradespeople  of  the  quarter,  and 
enjoyed  a  monopoly  of  the  repairs,  renovations,  and  fine- 
drawing  of  all  the  coats  and  trousers  in  three  adjacent 
streets.  The  lodge  was  spacious  and  wholesome,  and  boasted 
a  second  room;  wherefore  the  Cibot  couple  were  looked  upon 
as  among  the  luckiest  porters  in  the  arrondissement. 

Cibot,  small  and  stunted,  with  a  complexion  almost  olive- 
colored  by  reason  of  sitting  day  in  day  out  Turk-fashion 
on  a  table  level  with  the  barred  window,  made  about  twelve 
or  fourteen  francs  a  week.  He  worked  still,  though  he  was 
fifty-eight  years  old,  but  fifty-eight  is  the  porter's  golden 
age;  he  is  used  to  his  lodge,  he  and  his  room  fit  each  other 
like  the  shell  and  the  oyster,  and  "  he  is  known  in  the  neigh- 
borhood." 

Mme.  Cibot,  sometime  opener  of  oysters  at  the  Cadran 
Bleu,  after  all  the  adventures  which  come  unsought  to  the 
belle  of  an  oyster-bar,  left  her  post  for  love  of  Cibot  at  the 
age  of  twenty-eight.  The  beauty  of  a  woman  of  the  people 
is  short-lived,  especially  if  she  is  planted  espalier  fashion  at  a 
restaurant  door.  Her  features  are  hardened  by  puffs  of  hot 
air  from  the  kitchen ;  the  color  of  the  heeltaps  of  customers' 
bottles,  finished  in  the  company  of  the  waiters,  gradually 
filters  into  her  complexion — no  beauty  is  full  blown  so  soon  as 
the  beauty  of  an  oyster-opener.  Luckily  for  Mme.  Cibot, 
lawful  wedlock  and  a  portress's  life  were  oflPered  to  her  just 
in  time;  while  she  still  preserved  a  comeliness  of  a  masculine 
order  slandered  by  rivals  of  the  Rue  de  Normandie,  who  called 
her  "  a  great  blowsy  thing,"  Mme.  Cibot  might  have  sat  as  a 
model  to  Rubens.  Those  flesh  tints  reminded  you  of  the  ap- 
petizing sheen  on  a  pat  of  Isigny  butter;  but  plump  as  she 
was,  no  woman  went  about  her  work  with  more  agility.  Mme. 
Cibot  had  attained  the  time  of  life  when  women  of  her  stamp 
are  obliged  to  shave — which  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  she 
had  reached  the  age  of  forty-eight.  A  porter's  wife  with  a 
mustache  is  one  of  the  best  possible  guarantees  of  respecta- 
bility and  security  that  a  landlord  can  have.     If  Delacroix 


COUSIN  PONS  43 

could  have  seen  Mme.  Cibot  leaning  proudly  on  her  broom 
handle,  he  would  assuredly  have  painted  her  as  Bellona. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  circumstances  of  the  Cibots, 
man  and  wife  (in  the  style  of  an  indictment),  were  one  day 
to  affect  the  lives  of  the  two  friends ;  wherefore  the  chronicler, 
as  in  duty  bound,  must  give  some  particulars  as  to  the  Cibots' 
lodge. 

The  house  brought  in  about  eight  thousand  francs,  for 
there  were  three  complete  sets  of  apartments — back  and 
front,  on  the  side  nearest  the  Rue  de  Normandie,  as  well  as 
the  three  floors  in  the  older  mansion  between  the  courtyard 
and  the  garden,  and  a  shop  kept  by  a  marine  store-dealer 
named  Remonencq,  which  fronted  on  the  street.  During  the 
past  few  months  this  Remonencq  had  begun  to  deal  in  old 
curiosities,  and  knew  the  value  of  Pons's  collection  so  well  that 
he  took  off  his  hat  whenever  the  musicians  came  in  or  went 
out. 

A  sou  in  the  livre  on  eight  thousand  francs  therefore 
brought  in  about  four  hundred  francs  to  the  Cibots.  They 
had  no  rent  to  pay  and  no  expenses  for  firing;  Cibot's  earn- 
ings amounted  on  an  average  to  seven  or  eight  hundred 
francs,  add  tips  at  the  New  Year,  and  the  pair  had  altogether 
an  income  of  sixteen  hundred  francs,  every  penny  of  which 
they  spent,  for  the  Cibots  lived  and  fared  better  than  work- 
ing people  usually  do.  "  One  can  only  live  once,"  La  Cibot 
used  to  say.  She  was  born  during  the  Revolution,  you  see, 
and  had  never  learned  her  Catechism. 

The  husband  of  this  portress  with  the  unblenching  tawny 
eyes  was  an  object  of  envy  to  the  whole  fraternity,  for  La 
Cibot  had  not  forgotten  the  knowledge  of  cookery  picked  up 
at  the  Cadran  Bleu.  So  it  had  come  to  pass  that  the  Cibots 
had  passed  the  prime  of  life,  and  saw  themselves  on  the  thresh- 
old of  old  age  without  a  hundred  francs  put  by  for  the  future. 
Well  clad  and  well  fed,  they  enjoyed  among  the  neighbors, 
it  is  true,  the  respect  due  to  twenty-six  years  of  strict 
honesty ;  for  if  they  had  nothing  of  their  own,  they  "  hadn't 
nothing  belonging  to  nobody  else,"  according  to  La  Cibot, 
who  was  prodigal  of  negatives.  "  There  wasn't  never  such  a 
love  of  a  man,"  she  would  say  to  her  husband.     Do  you  ask 


44  COUSIN  PONS 

why?  You  might  as  well  ask  the  reason  of  her  indifference 
in  matters  of  religion. 

Both  of  them  were  proud  of  a  life  lived  in  open  day,  of  the 
esteem  in  which  they  were  held  for  six  or  seven  streets  round 
about,  and  of  the  autocratic  rule  permitted  to  them  by  the 
proprietor  ("  perprietor,"  they  called  him);  but  in  private 
they  groaned  because  they  had  no  money  lying  at  interest. 
Cibot  complained  of  pains  in  his  hands  and  legs,  and  his  wife 
would  lament  that  her  poor,  dear  Cibot  should  be  forced  to 
work  at  his  age ;  and,  indeed,  the  day  is  not  far  distant  when 
a  porter  after  thirty  years  of  such  a  life  will  cry  shame  upon 
the  injustice  of  the  Government  and  clamor  for  the  ribbon  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor.  Every  time  that  the  gossip  of  the 
quarter  brought  news  of  such  and  such  a  servant-maid,  left 
an  annuity  of  three  or  four  hundred  francs  after  eight  or 
ten  years  of  service,  the  porters'  lodges  would  resound  with 
complaints,  which  may  give  some  idea  of  the  consuming  jeal- 
ousies in  the  lowest  walks  of  life  in  Paris. 

"  Oh,  indeed !  It  will  never  happen  to  the  like  of  us  to 
have  our  names  mentioned  in  a  will !  We  have  no  luck,  but 
we  do  more  than  servants,  for  all  that.  We  fill  a  place  of 
trust ;  we  give  receipts,  we  are  on  the  lookout  for  squalls,  and 
yet  we  are  treated  like  dogs,  neither  more  nor  less,  and  that's 
the  truth ! " 

"  Some  find  fortune  and  some  miss  fortune,"  said  Cibot, 
coming  in  with  a  coat. 

"  If  I  had  left  Cibot  here  in  his  lodge  and  taken  a  place  as 
cook,  we  should  have  had  our  thirty  thousand  francs  out  at 
interest,"  cried  Mme.  Cibot,  standing  chatting  with  a  neigh- 
bor, her  hands  on  her  prominent  hips.  "  But  I  didn't  under- 
stand how  to  get  on  in  life ;  housed  inside  of  a  snug  lodge  and 
firing  found  and  want  for  nothing,  but  that  is  all." 

In  1836  when  the  friends  took  up  their  abode  on  the  second 
floor,  they  brought  about  a  sort  of  revolution  in  the  Cibot 
household.  It  befell  on  this  wise.  Schmucke,  like  his  friend 
Pons,  usually  arranged  that  the  porter  or  the  porter's  wife 
should  undertake  the  cares  of  housekeeping;  and  being  both 
of  one  mind  on  this  point  when  they  came  to  live  in  the  Rue  de 
Normandie,   Mme.    Cibot  became   their  housekeeper   at   the 


COUSIN  PONS  45 

rate  of  twenty-five  francs  per  month — twelve  francs,  fifty 
centimes  for  each  of  them.  Before  the  year  was  out,  the 
emeritus  portress  reigned  in  the  estabhshment  of  the  two  old 
bachelors,  as  she  reigned  everywhere  in  the  house  belonging 
to  M.  Pillerault,  great  uncle  of  Mme.  la  Comtesse  Popinot. 
Their  business  was  her  business ;  she  called  them  "  my  gentle- 
men." And  at  last,  finding  the  pair  of  nutcrackers  mild  as 
lambs,  easy  to  live  with,  and  by  no  means  suspicious — perfect 
children,  in  fact — her  heart,  the  heart  of  a  woman  of  the 
people,  prompted  her  to  protect,  adore,  and  serve  them  with 
such  thorough  devotion,  that  she  read  them  a  lecture  now  and 
again,  and  saved  them  from,  the  impositions  which  swell  the 
cost  of  living  in  Paris.  For  twenty-five  francs  a  month,  the 
two  old  bachelors  inadvertently  acquired  a  mother. 

As  they  became  aware  of  Mme.  Cibot's  full  value,  they 
gave  her  outspoken  praises,  and  thanks,  and  little  presents 
which  strengthened  the  bonds  of  the  domestic  alliance.  Mme. 
Cibot  a  thousand  times  preferred  appreciation  to  money  pay- 
ments ;  it  is  a  well-known  fact  that  the  sense  that  one  is  ap- 
preciated makes  up  for  a  deficiency  in  wages.  And  Cibot 
did  all  that  he  could  for  his  wife's  two  gentlemen,  and  ran 
errands  and  did  repairs  at  half-price  for  them. 

The  second  year  brought  a  new  element  into  the  friendship 
between  the  lodge  and  the  second  floor,  and  Schmucke  con- 
cluded a  bargain  which  satisfied  his  indolence  and  desire  for 
a  life  without  cares.  For  thirty  sous  per  day,  or  forty-five 
francs  per  month,  Mme.  Cibot  undertook  to  provide  Schmucke 
with  breakfast  and  dinner ;  and  Pons,  finding  his  friend's 
breakfast  very  much  to  his  mind,  concluded  a  separate  treaty 
for  that  meal  only  at  the  rate  of  eighteen  francs.  This  ar- 
rangement, which  added  nearly  ninety  francs  every  month  to 
the  takings  of  the  porter  and  his  wife,  made  two  inviolable 
beings  of  the  lodgers  ;  they  became  angels,  cherubs,  divinities. 
It  is  very  doubtful  whether  the  King  of  the  French,  who  is 
supposed  to  understand  economy,  is  as  well  served  as  the  pair 
of  nutcrackers  used  to  be  in  those  days. 

For  them  the  milk  issued  pure  from  the  can ;  they  enjoyed 
a  free  perusal  of  all  the  morning  papers  taken  by  other 
lodgers,  later  risers,  who  were  told,  if  need  be,  that  the  news- 


46  COUSIN  PONS 

paper  had  not  come  yet.  Mme.  Cibot,  moreover,  kept  their 
clothes,  their  rooms,  and  the  landing  as  clean  as  a  Flemish 
interior.  As  for  Schmucke,  he  enjoyed  unhoped-for  happi- 
ness ;  Mme.  Cibot  had  made  life  easy  for  him ;  he  paid  her 
about  six  francs  a  month,  and  she  took  charge  of  his  linen, 
washing,  and  mending.  Altogether  his  expenses  amounted  to 
sixty-six  francs  per  month  (for  he  spent  fifteen  francs  on 
tobacco),  and  sixty-six  francs  multiplied  by  twelve  produces 
the  sum-total  of  seven  hundred  and  ninety-two  francs.  Add 
two  hundred  and  twenty  francs  for  rent,  rates,  and  taxes, 
and  you  have  a  thousand  and  twelve  francs.  Cibot  was 
Schmucke's  tailor;  his  clothes  cost  him  on  an  average  a 
hundred  and  fifty  francs,  which  further  swells  the  total  to  the 
sum  of  twelve  hundred.  On  twelve  hundred  francs  per 
annum  this  profound  philosopher  lived.  How  many  people  in 
Europe,  whose  one  thought  it  is  to  come  to  Paris  and  live 
there,  will  be  agreeably  surprised  to  learn  that  you  may  exist 
in  comfort  upon  an  income  of  twelve  hundred  francs  in  the 
Rue  de  Normandie  in  the  Marais,  under  the  wing  of  a  Mme. 
Cibot. 

Mme.  Cibot,  to  resume  the  story,  was  amazed  beyond 
expression  to  see  Pons,  good  man,  return  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  evening.  Such  a  thing  had  never  happened  before;  and 
not  only  so,  but  "  her  gentleman  "  had  given  her  no  greet- 
ing— had  not  so  much  as  seen  her ! 

"  Well,  well,  Cibot,"  said  she  to  her  spouse,  "  M.  Pons  has 
come  in  for  a  million,  or  gone  out  of  his  mind  !  " 

"  That  is  how  it  looks  to  me,"  said  Cibot,  dropping  the 
coat-sleeve  in  which  he  was  making  a  "  dart,"  in  tailor's 
language. 

The  savory  odor  of  a  stew  pervaded  the  whole  courtyard, 
as  Pons  returned  mechanically  home.  Mme.  Cibot  was  dish- 
ing up  Schmucke's  dinner,  which  consisted  of  scraps  of  boiled 
beef  from  a  little  cook-shop  not  above  doing  a  little  trade  of 
this  kind.  These  morsels  were  fricasseed  in  brown  butter, 
with  thin  slices  of  onion,  until  the  meat  and  vegetables  had 
absorbed  the  gravy,  and  this  true  porter's  dish  was  browned 
to  the  right  degree.  With  that  fricassee,  prepared  with 
loving  care  for  Cibot  and  Schmucke,  and  accompanied  by  a 


COUSIN  PONS  47 

bottle  of  beer  and  a  piece  of  cheese,  the  old  German  music- 
master  was  quite  content.  Not  King  Solomon  in  all  his 
glory,  be  sure,  could  dine  better  than  Schmucke.  A  dish  of 
boiled  beef  fricassed  with  onions,  scraps  of  saute  chicken,  or 
beef  and  parsley,  or  venison,  or  fish  served  with  a  sauce  of 
La  Cibot's  own  invention  (a  sauce  with  which  a  mother  might 
unsuspectingly  eat  her  child), — such  was  Schmucke's  or- 
dinary, varying  with  the  quantity  and  quality  of  the  remnants 
of  food  supplied  by  boulevard  restaurants  to  the  cook-shop 
in  the  Rue  Boucherat.  Schmucke  took  everything  that 
"  goot  Montame  Zipod  "  gave  him,  and  was  content,  and  so 
from  day  to  day  "  goot  Montame  Zipod  "  cut  down  the  cost 
of  his  dinner,  until  it  could  be  served  for  twenty  sous. 

"  It  won't  be  long  afore  I  find  out  what  is  the  matter 
with  him,  poor  dear,"  said  Mme.  Cibot  to  her  husband,  "  for 
here  is  M.  Schmucke's  dinner  all  ready  for  him." 

As  she  spoke,  she  covered  the  deep  earthenware  dish  with 
a  plate;  and,  notwithstanding  her  age,  she  climbed  the 
stair  and  reached  the  door  before  Schmucke  opened  it  to 
Pons. 

"  Vat  is  de  matter  mit  you,  mein  goot  friend.''  "  asked  the 
German,  scared  by  the  expression  on  Pons's  face. 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it ;  but  I  have  come  home  to  have 
dinner  with  you " 

"  Tinner !  tinner ! "  cried  Schmucke  in  ecstasy ;  "  but  it  is 
imbossible ! "  the  old  German  added,  as  he  thought  of  his 
friend's  gastronomical  tastes ;  and  at  that  very  moment  he 
caught  sight  of  Mme.  Cibot  listening  to  the  conversation,  as 
she  had  a  right  to  do  as  his  lawful  housewife.  Struck  with 
one  of  those  happy  inspirations  which  only  enlighten  a 
friend's  heart,  he  marched  up  to  the  portress  and  drew  her 
out  to  the  stairhead. 

"  Montame  Zipod,"  he  said,  "  der  goot  Bons  is  fond  of 
goot  dings ;  shoost  go  rount  to  der  Catran  Pleu  und  order  a 
dainty  liddle  tinner,  mit  anjovies  und  maggaroni.  Ein 
tinner  for  Lugullus  in  vact." 

"  What  is  that.?  "  inquired  La  Cibot. 

"  Oh !  ah !  "  returned  Schmucke,  "  it  is  veal  a  la  pour- 
cheoise  "  {hourgeoise,  he  meant),  "  a  nice  fisch,  ein  pottle  off 


48  COUSIN  PONS 

Porteaux,  und  nice  dings,  der  fery  best  dey  haf,  like  gro- 
quettes  of  rice  und  shmoked  paeon !  Bay  for  it,  und  say 
nodings;  I  will  gif  you  back  de  money  to-morrow  morning." 

Back  went  Schmucke,  radiant  and  rubbing  his  hands ;  but 
his  expression  slowly  changed  to  a  look  of  bewildered  aston- 
ishment as  he  heard  Pons's  story  of  the  troubles  that  had  but 
just  now  overwhelmed  him  in  a  moment.  He  tried  to  comfort 
Pons  by  giving  him  a  sketch  of  the  world  from  his  own 
point  of  view.  Paris,  in  his  opinion,  was  a  perpetual  hurly- 
burly,  the  men  and  women  in  it  were  whirled  away  by  a  tem- 
pestuous waltz ;  it  was  no  use  expecting  anything  of  the 
world,  which  only  looked  at  the  outsides  of  things,  "  und  not 
at  der  inderior."  For  the  hundredth  time  he  related  how 
that  the  only  three  pupils  for  whom  he  had  really  cared,  for 
whom  he  was  ready  to  die,  the  three  who  had  been  fond  of 
him,  and  even  allowed  him  a  little  pension  of  nine  hundred 
francs,  each  contributing  three  hundred  to  the  amount — his 
favorite  pupils  had  quite  forgotten  to  come  to  see  him ;  and  so 
swift  was  the  current  of  Parisian  life  which  swept  them  away, 
that  if  he  called  at  their  houses,  he  had  not  succeeded  in  see- 
ing them  once  in  three  years — (it  is  a  fact,  however,  that 
Schmucke  had  always  thought  fit  to  call  on  these  great  ladies 
at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning!) — still,  his  pension  was  paid 
quarterly  through  the  medium  of  solicitors. 

*'  Und  yet,  dey  are  hearts  of  gold,"  he  concluded.  "  Dey 
are  my  liddle  Saint  Cecilias,  sharming  vimmen,  Montame  de 
Bordentuere,  Montame  te  Fantenesse,  und  Montame  du  Dilet. 
Gif  I  see  dem  at  all,  it  is  at  die  Jambs  Elusees,  und  dey  do 
not  see  me  .  .  .  yet  dey  are  ver'  fond  of  me,  und  I  might 
go  to  dine  mit  dem,  und  dey  vould  be  ver'  bleased  to  see  me ; 
und  I  might  go  to  deir  country-houses,  but  I  would  much 
rader  be  mit  mine  friend  Bons,  because  I  kann  see  him  venefer 
I  like,  und  efery  tay." 

Pons  took  Schmucke's  hand  and  grasped  it  between  his  own. 
All  that  was  passing  in  his  inmost  soul  was  communicated  in 
that  tight  pressure.  And  so  for  a  while  the  friends  sat  like 
two  lovers,  meeting  at  last  after  a  long  absence. 

"  Tine  here,  efery  tay !  "  broke  out  Schmucke,  inwardly 
blessing  Mme.  de  Marville  for  her  hardness  of  heart.     "  Look 


COUSIN  PONS  49 

here!  Ve  shall  go  a  prick-a-pracking  togeders,  und  der 
teufel  shall  nefer  show  his  tail  here." 

"  Ve  shall  go  prick-a-pracking  togeders !  " — for  the  full 
comprehension  of  those  truly  heroic  words,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  Schmucke's  ignorance  of  bric-a-brac  was  some- 
thing of  the  densest.  It  required  all  the  strength  of  his 
friendship  to  keep  him  from  doing  heedless  damage  in  the 
sitting-room  and  study  which  did  duty  as  a  museum  for  Pons. 
Schmucke,  wholly  absorbed  in  music,  a  composer  for  love  of 
his  art,  took  about  as  much  interest  in  his  friend's  little  trifles 
as  a  fish  might  take  in  a  flowershow  at  the  Luxembourg,  sup- 
posing that  it  had  received  a  ticket  of  admission.  A  certain 
awe  which  he  certainly  felt  for  the  marvels  was  simply  a  re- 
flection of  the  respect  which  Pons  showed  his  treasures  when 
he  dusted  them.  To  Pons's  exclamations  of  admiration,  he 
was  wont  to  reply  with  a  "  Yes,  it  is  ver'  bretty,"  as  a  mother 
answers  baby-gestures  with  meaningless  baby-talk.  Seven 
times  since  the  friends  had  lived  together.  Pons  had  ex- 
changed a  good  clock  for  a  better  one,  till  at  last  he  possessed 
a  timepiece  in  Boule's  first  and  best  manner,  for  Boule  had 
two  manners,  as  Rafael  had  three.  In  the  first  he  combined 
ebony  and  copper ;  in  the  second — contrary  to  his  convic- 
tions— he  sacrificed  to  tortoise-shell,  working  miracles  to  out- 
strip his  rivals,  the  inventors  of  tortoise-shell  inlaid  work.  In 
spite  of  Pons's  learned  dissertations,  Schmucke  never  could 
see  the  slightest  difference  between  the  magnificent  clock  in 
Boule's  first  manner  and  its  six  predecessors ;  but,  for  Pons's 
sake,  Schmucke  was  even  more  careful  among  the  *'  chim- 
cracks  "  than  Pons  himself.  So  it  should  not  be  surprising 
that  Schmucke's  sublime  words  comforted  Pons  in  his  despair ; 
for  "  Ve  shall  go  prick-a-pracking  togeders,"  meant,  being 
interpreted,  "  I  will  put  money  into  bric-a-brac,  if  you  will 
only  dine  here." 

"  Dinner  is  ready,"  Mme.  Cibot  announced,  with  astonish- 
ing self-possession. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  Pons's  surprise  when  he  saw 
and  relished  the  dinner  due  to  Schmucke's  friendship.  Sensa- 
tions of  this  kind,  that  come  so  rarely  in  a  lifetime,  are  never 
the  outcome  of  the  constant,  close  relationship  by  which  friend 


50  COUSIN  PONS 

daily  says  to  friend,  "  You  are  a  second  self  to  me ; "  for 
this,  too,  becomes  a  matter  of  use  and  wont.  It  is  only  by 
contact  with  the  barbarism  of  the  world  without  that  the 
happiness  of  that  intimate  life  is  revealed  to  us  as  a  sudden 
glad  surprise.  It  is  the  outer  world  which  renews  the  bond 
between  friend  and  friend,  lover  and  lover,  all  their  lives  long, 
wherever  two  great  souls  are  knit  together  by  friendship  or 
by  love. 

Pons  brushed  away  two  big  tears,  Schmucke  himself  wiped 
his  eyes;  and  though  nothing  was  said,  the  two  were  closer 
friends  than  before.  Little  friendly  nods  and  glances  ex- 
changed across  the  table  were  like  balm  to  Pons,  soothing  the 
pain  caused  by  the  sand  dropped  in  his  heart  by  the  President's 
wife.  As  for  Schmucke,  he  rubbed  his  hands  till  they  were 
sore ;  for  a  new  idea  had  occurred  to  him ;  one  of  those  great 
discoveries  which  cause  a  German  no  surprise,  unless  they 
sprout  up  suddenly  in  a  Teuton  brain  frost-bound  by  the  awe 
and  reverence  due  to  sovereign  princes. 

"  Mine  goot  Bons?  "  began  Schmucke. 

*'  I  can  guess  what  you  mean ;  you  would  like  us  both  to 
dine  together  here,  every  day " 

"  Gif  only  I  vas  rich  enof  to  lif  like  dis  efery  tay " 

began  the  good  German  in  a  melancholy  voice.  But  here 
Mme.  Cibot  appeared  upon  the  scene.  Pons  had  given  her 
an  order  for  the  theater  from  time  to  time,  and  stood  in  conse- 
quence almost  as  high  in  her  esteem  and  affection  as  her 
boarder  Schmucke. 

"  Lord  love  you,"  said  she,  "  for  three  francs  and  wine 
extra  I  can  give  you  both  such  a  dinner  every  day  that  you 
will  be  ready  to  lick  the  plates  as  clean  as  if  they  were 
washed." 

"  It  is  a  fact,"  Schmucke  remarked,  "  dat  die  tinners  dat 
Montame  Zipod  cooks  for  me  are  better  as  de  messes  dey  eat 
at  der  royal  dable !  "  In  his  eagerness,  Schmucke,  usually 
so  full  of  respect  for  the  powers  that  be,  so  far  forgot  himself 
as  to  imitate  the  irreverent  newspapers  which  scoffed  at  the 
"  fixed-price  "  dinners  of  Royalty. 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Pons.     "  Very  well,  I  will  try  to-morrow." 

And  at  that  promise  Schmucke  sprang  from  one  end  of  the 


COUSIN  PONS  61 

table  to  the  other,  sweeping  off  tablecloth,  bottles,  and  dishes 
as  he  went  and  hugged  Pons  to  his  heart.  So  might  gas  rush 
to  combine  with  gas. 

"  Vat  happiness  !  "  cried  he. 

Mme.  Cibot  was  quite  touched.  "  Monsieur  is  going  to 
dine  here  every  day !  "  she  cried  proudly. 

That  excellent  woman  departed  downstairs  again  in  ig- 
norance of  the  event  which  had  brought  about  this  result, 
entered  her  room  like  Josepha  in  William  Tell,  set  down  the 
plates  and  dishes  on  the  table  with  a  bang,  and  called  aloud 
to  her  husband — 

"  Cibot !  run  to  the  Cafe  Turc  for  two  small  cups  of 
coffee,  and  tell  the  man  at  the  stove  that  it  is  for  me." 

Then  she  sat  down  and  rested  her  hands  on  her  massive 
knees,  and  gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  opposite  wall. 

"  I  will  go  to-night  and  see  what  Ma'am  Fontaine  says," 
she  thought.  (Mme.  Fontaine  told  fortunes  on  the  cards 
for  all  the  servants  in  the  quarter  of  the  Marais).  "  Since 
these  two  gentlemen  came  here,  we  have  put  two  thousand 
francs  in  the  savings  bank.  Two  thousand  francs  in  eight 
years !  What  luck !  Would  it  be  better  to  make  no  profit 
out  of  M.  Pons's  dinner  and  keep  him  here  at  home.'*  Ma'am 
Fontaine's  hen  will  tell  me  that." 

Three  years  ago  INIme.  Cibot  had  begun  to  cherish  a  hope 
that  her  name  might  be  mentioned  in  "  her  gentlemen's  "  wills  ; 
she  had  redoubled  her  zeal  since  that  covetous  thought  tardily 
sprouted  up  in  the  midst  of  that  so  honest  mustache.  Pons 
hitherto  had  dined  abroad,  eluding  her  desire  to  have  both  of 
"  her  gentlemen  "  entirely  under  her  management ;  his  "  trou- 
badour "  collector's  life  had  scared  away  certain  vague  ideas 
which  hovered  in  La  Cibot's  brain ;  but  now  her  shadowy  proj- 
ects assumed  the  formidable  shape  of  a  definite  plan,  dating 
from  that  memorable  dinner.  Fifteen  minutes  later  she  re- 
appeared in  the  dining-room  with  two  cups  of  excellent  coffee, 
flanked  by  a  couple  of  tiny  glasses  of  kirschwasser. 

"  Long  lif  Montame  Zipod ! "  cried  Schmucke ;  "  she  haf 
guessed  right ! " 

The  diner-out  bemoaned  himself  a  little,  while  Schmucke 
met   his   lamentations  with  coaxing   fondness,   like    a   home 


52  COUSIN  PONS 

pigeon  welcoming  back  a  wandering  bird.  Then  the  pair  set 
out  for  the  theater, 

Schmucke  could  not  leave  his  friend  in  the  condition  to 
which  he  had  been  brought  by  the  Camusots — mistresses  and 
servants.  He  knew  Pons  so  well ;  he  feared  lest  some  cruel, 
sad  thought  should  seize  on  him  at  his  conductor's  desk, 
and  undo  all  the  good  done  by  his  welcome  home  to  the 
nest. 

And  Schmucke  brought  his  friend  back  on  his  arm  through 
the  streets  at  midnight.  A  lover  could  not  be  more  careful 
of  his  lady.  He  pointed  out  the  edges  of  the  curbstones,  he 
was  on  the  lookout  whenever  they  stepped  on  or  off  the  pave- 
ment, ready  with  a  warning  if  there  was  a  gutter  to  cross. 
Schmucke  could  have  wished  that  the  streets  were  paved  with 
cotton-down ;  he  would  have  had  a  blue  sky  overhead,  and 
Pons  should  hear  the  music  which  all  the  angels  in  heaven 
were  making  for  him.  He  had  won  the  lost  province  in  his 
friend's  heart ! 

For  nearly  three  months  Pons  and  Schmucke  dined  to- 
gether every  day.  Pons  was  obliged  to  retrench  at  once ;  for 
dinner  at  forty-five  francs  a  month  and  wine  at  thirty-five 
meant  precisely  eighty  francs  less  to  spend  on  bric-a-brac. 
And  very  soon,  in  spite  of  all  that  Schmucke  could  do,  in 
spite  of  his  little  German  jokes.  Pons  fell  to  regretting  the 
delicate  dishes,  the  liqueurs,  the  good  coffee,  the  table-talk, 
the  insincere  pohteness,  the  guests,  and  the  gossip,  and  the 
houses  where  he  used  to  dine.  On  the  wrong  side  of  sixty  a 
man  cannot  break  himself  of  a  habit  of  thirtj^-six  years' 
growth.  Wine  at  a  hundred  and  thirty  francs  per  hogshead 
is  scarcely  a  generous  liquid  in  a  gourmefs  glass ;  every  time 
that  Pons  raised  it  to  his  lips  he  thought,  with  infinite  poign- 
ant regret,  of  the  exquisite  wines  in  his  entertainers'  cellars. 

In  short,  at  the  end  of  three  months,  the  cruel  pangs  which 
had  gone  near  to  break  Pons's  sensitive  heart  had  died  away ; 
he  forgot  everything  but  the  charms  of  society;  and  lan- 
guished for  them  like  some  elderly  slave  of  a  petticoat  com- 
pelled to  leave  the  mistress  who  too  repeatedly  deceives  him. 
In  vain  he  tried  to  hide  his  profound  and  consuming  melan- 
choly ;  it  was  too  plain  that  he  was  suffering  from  one  of  the 


COUSIN  PONS  53 

mysterious  complaints  which  the  mind  brings  upon  the 
body, 

A  singk  symptom  will  throw  light  upon  this  case  of  nos- 
talgia (as  it  were)  produced  by  breaking  away  from  an  old 
habit ;  in  itself  it  is  trifling,  one  of  the  myriad  nothings  which 
are  as  rings  in  a  coat  of  chain-mail  enveloping  the  soul  in  a 
network  of  iron.  One  of  the  keenest  pleasures  of  Pons's  old 
life,  one  of  the  joys  of  the  dinner-table  parasite  at  all  times, 
was  the  "  surprise,"  the  thrill  produced  by  the  extra  dainty 
dish  added  triumphantly  to  the  bill  of  fare  by  the  mistress  of 
a  bourgeois  house,  to  give  a  festal  air  to  the  dinner.  Pons's 
stomach  hankered  after  that  gastronomical  satisfaction. 
Mme.  Cibot,  in  the  pride  of  her  heart,  enumerated  every  dish 
beforehand;  a  salt  and  savour  once  periodically  recurrent, 
had  vanished  utterly  from  daily  life.  Dinner  proceeded  with- 
out le  plat  convert,  as  our  grandsires  called  it.  This  lay  be- 
yond the  bounds  of  Schmucke's  powers  of  comprehension. 

Pons  had  too  much  delicacy  to  grumble ;  but  if  the  case  of 
unappreciated  genius  is  hard,  it  goes  harder  still  with  the 
stomach  whose  claims  are  ignored.  Slighted  affection,  a 
subject  of  which  too  much  has  been  made,  is  founded  upon  an 
illusory  longing;  for  if  the  creature  fails,  love  can  turn 
to  the  Creator,  who  has  treasures  to  bestow.  But  the 
stomach  !  .  .  .  Nothing  can  be  compared  to  its  sufferings ; 
for,  in  the  first  place,  one  must  live. 

Pons  thought  wistfully  of  certain  creams — surely  the 
poetry  of  cookery ! — of  certain  white  sauces,  masterpieces  of 
the  art ;  of  truffled  chickens,  fit  to  melt  your  heart ;  and  above 
these,  and  more  than  all  these,  of  the  famous  Rhine  carp,  only 
known  at  Paris,  served  with  what  condiments !  There  were 
days  when  Pons,  thinking  upon  Count  Popinot's  cook,  would 
sigh  aloud,  "  Ah,  Sophie !  "  x4.ny  passer-by  hearing  the  ex- 
clamation might  have  thought  that  the  old  man  referred  to 
a  lost  mistress ;  but  his  fancy  dwelt  upon  something  rarer,  on 
a  fat  Rhine  carp  with  a  sauce,  thin  in  the  sauce-boat,  creamy 
upon  the  palate,  a  sauce  that  deserved  the  Montyon  prize ! 
The  conductor  of  the  orchestra,  living  on  memories  of  past 
dinners,  grew  visibly  leaner;  he  was  pining  away,  a  victim 
to  gastric  nostalgia. 


64.  COUSIN  PONS 

By  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  month  (towards  the  end 
of  January  1845)  Pons's  condition  attracted  attention  at  the 
theater.  The  flute,  a  young  man  named  Wilhelm,  Hke  almost 
all  Germans ;  and  Schwab,  to  distinguish  him  from  all  other 
Wilhehns,  if  not  from  all  other  Schwabs,  judged  it  expedient 
to  open  Schmucke's  eyes  to  his  friend's  state  of  health.  It 
was  a  first  performance  of  a  piece  in  which  Schmucke's  in- 
struments were  all  required. 

"  The  old  gentleman  is  failing,"  said  the  flute ;  "  there  is 
something  wrong  somewhere;  his  eyes  are  heavy,  and  he 
doesn't  beat  time  as  he  used  to  do,"  added  Wilhelm  Schwab, 
indicating  Pons  as  he  gloomily  took  his  place, 

"  Dat  is  alvays  de  vay,  gif  a  man  is  sixty  years  old," 
answered  Schmucke. 

The  Highland  widow,  in  The  Chronicles  of  the  Canon- 
gate,  sent  her  son  to  his  death  to  have  him  beside  her  for 
twenty-four  hours ;  and  Schmucke  could  have  sacrificed  Pons 
for  the  sake  of  seeing  his  face  every  day  across  the  dinner- 
table. 

"  Everybody  in  the  theater  is  anxious  about  him,"  continued 
the  flute ;  "  and,  as  the  premiere  danseuse.  Mile.  Brisetout, 
says,  '  he  makes  hardly  any  noise  now  when  he  blows  his 
nose.'  " 

And,  indeed,  a  peal  like  the  blast  of  a  horn  used  to  re- 
sound through  the  old  musician's  bandana  handkerchief 
whenever  he  raised  it  to  that  lengthy  and  cavernous  feature. 
The  President's  wife  had  more  frequently  found  fault  with 
him  on  that  score  than  on  any  other. 

"  I  vould  gif  a  goot  teal  to  amuse  him,"  said  Schmucke, 
*'  he  gets  so  dull." 

"  M.  Pons  always  seems  so  much  above  the  like  of  us  poor 
devils,  that,  upon  my  word,  I  didn't  dare  to  ask  him  to 
my  wedding,"  said  Wilhelm  Schwab.     "  I  am  going  to  be 

married " 

*'  How  ?  "  demanded  Schmucke. 

"  Oh  1  quite  properly,"  returned  Wilhelm  Schwab,  taking 
Schmucke's  quaint  inquiry  for  a  gibe,  of  which  that  perfect 
Christian  was  quite  incapable. 

"  Come,  gentlemen,  take  your  places !  "  called  Pons,  look- 


COUSIN  PONS  55 

ing  round  at  his  little  army,  as  the  stage  manager's  bell  rang 
for  the  overture. 

The  piece  was  a  dramatized  fairy  tale,  a  pantomime  called 
The  DeviVs  Betrothed,  which  ran  for  two  hundred  nights. 
In  the  interval,  after  the  first  act,  Wilhelm  Schwab  and 
Schmucke  were  left  alone  in  the  orchestra,  with  a  house  at  a 
temperature  of  thirty-two  degrees  Reaumur. 

"  Tell  me  your  hishdory,"  said  Schmucke. 

"  Look  there !  Do  you  see  that  young  man  in  the  box 
yonder.''    .    .    .    Do  you  recognize  him.^  " 

"  Nefer  a  pit " 

"  Ah .''  That  is  because  he  is  wearing  yellow  gloves  and 
shines  with  all  the  radiance  of  riches,  but  that  is  my  friend 
Fritz   Brunner  out  of  Frankfort-on-the-Main." 

"  Dat  used  to  komm  to  see  du  blay  und  sit  peside  you  in 
dcr  orchestra.''  " 

"  The  same.  You  would  not  believe  he  could  look  so  dif- 
ferent, would  you !  " 

The  hero  of  the  promised  story  was  a  German  of  that 
particular  type  in  which  the  somber  irony  of  Goethe's  Meph- 
istopheles  is  blended  with  a  homely  cheerfulness  found  in 
the  romances  of  Auguste  Lafontaine  of  pacific  memory ;  but 
the  predominating  element  in  the  compound  of  artlessness  and 
guile,  of  shopkeeper's  shrewdness,  and  the  studied  careless- 
ness of  a  member  of  the  Jockey  Club,  was  that  form  of  dis- 
gust which  set  a  pistol  in  the  hands  of  a  young  Werther, 
bored  to  death  less  by  Charlotte  than  by  German  princes.  It 
was  a  thoroughly  German  face,  full  of  cunning,  full  of 
simplicity,  stupidity,  and  courage ;  the  knowledge  which 
brings  weariness,  the  worldly  wisdom  which  the  veriest  child's 
trick  leaves  at  fault,  the  abuse  of  beer  and  tobacco, — all  these 
were  there  to  be  seen  in  it,  and  to  heighten  the  contrast  of 
opposed  qualities,  there  was  a  wild  diabolical  gleam  in  the  fine 
blue  eyes  with  the  jaded  expression. 

Dressed  with  all  the  elegance  of  a  city  man,  Fritz  Brunner 
sat  in  full  view  of  the  house  displaying  a  bald  crown  of  the 
tint  beloved  by  Titian,  and  a  few  stray  fiery  red  hairs  on 
either  side  of  it ;  a  remnant  spared  by  debauchery  and  want, 
that  the  prodigal  might  have  a  right  to  spend  money  with  the 


56  COUSIN  PONS 

hairdresser  when  he  should  come  into  his  fortune.  A  face, 
once  fair  and  fresh  as  the  traditional  portrait  of  Jesus  Christ, 
had  grown  harder  since  the  advent  of  a  red  mustache;  a 
tawny  beard  lent  it  an  almost  sinister  look.  The  bright  blue 
eyes  had  lost  something  of  their  clearness  in  the  struggle  with 
distress.  The  countless  courses  by  which  a  man  sells  himself 
and  his  honor  in  Paris  had  left  their  traces  upon  his  eyelids 
and  carved  lines  about  the  eyes,  into  which  a  mother  once 
looked  with  a  mother's  rapture  to  find  a  copy  of  her  own 
fashioned  by  God's  hand. 

This  precocious  philosopher,  this  wizened  youth,  was  the 
work  of  a  stepmother. 

Herewith  begins  the  curious  history  of  a  prodigal  son  of 
Frankfort-on-the-Main — the  most  extraordinary  and  as- 
tounding portent  ever  beheld  by  that  well-conducted,  if  cen- 
tral, city. 

Gideon  Brunner,  father  of  the  aforesaid  Fritz,  was  one  of 
the  famous  innkeepers  of  Frankfort,  a  tribe  who  make  law- 
authorized  incisions  in  travelers'  purses  with  the  connivance 
of  the  local  bankers.  An  innkeeper  and  an  honest  Calvinist 
to  boot,  he  had  married  a  converted  Jewess  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  prosperity  with  the  money  she  brought 
him. 

When  the  Jewess  died,  leaving  a  son  Fritz,  twelve  years  of 
age,  under  the  joint  guardianship  of  his  father  and  maternal 
uncle,  a  furrier  at  Leipsic,  head  of  the  firm  of  Virlaz  and 
Company,  Brunner  senior  was  compelled  by  his  brother-in-law 
(who  was  by  no  means  as  soft  as  his  peltry)  to  invest  little 
Fritz's  money,  a  goodly  quantity  of  current  coin  of  the  realm, 
with  the  house  of  Al-Sartchild.  Not  a  penny  of  it  was  he 
allowed  to  touch.  So,  by  way  of  revenge  for  the  Israelite's 
pertinacity,  Brunner  senior  married  again.  It  was  impos- 
sible, he  said,  to  keep  his  huge  hotel  single-handed ;  it  needed 
a  woman's  eye  and  hand.  Gideon  Brunner's  second  wife  was 
an  innkeeper's  daughter,  a  very  pearl,  as  he  thought ;  but  he 
had  had  no  experience  of  only  daughters  spoiled  by  father 
and  mother. 

The  second  Mme.  Brunner  behaved  as  German  girls  may  be 
expected  to  behave  when  they  are  frivolous  and  wayward. 


COUSIN  PONS  57 

She  squandered  her  fortune,  she  avenged  the  first  Mme.  Brun- 
ner  by  making  her  husband  as  miserable  a  man  as  you  could 
find  in  the  compass  of  the  free  city  of  Frankfort-on-the-Main, 
where  the  millionaires,  it  is  said,  are  about  to  pass  a  law  com- 
pelling womenkind  to  cherish  and  obey  them  alone.  She  was 
partial  to  all  the  varieties  of  vinegar  commonly  called  Rhine 
wine  in  Germany ;  she  was  fond  of  articles  Paris,  of  horses  and 
dress ;  indeed,  the  one  expensive  taste  which  she  had  not  was 
a  liking  for  women.  She  took  a  dislike  to  little  Fritz,  and 
would  perhaps  have  driven  him  mad  if  that  young  offspring 
of  Calvinism  and  Judaism  had  not  had  Frankfort  for  his 
cradle  and  the  firm  of  Virlaz  at  Leipsic  for  his  guardian. 
Uncle  Virlaz,  however,  deep  in  his  furs,  confined  his  guardian- 
ship to  the  safe-keeping  of  Fritz's  silver  marks,  and  left  the 
boy  to  the  tender  mercies  of  this  stepmother. 

That  hyena  in  woman's  form  was  the  more  exasperated 
against  the  pretty  child,  the  lovely  Jewess's  son,  because  she 
herself  could  have  no  children  in  spite  of  efforts  worthy  of 
a  locomotive  engine.  A  diabolical  impulse  prompted  her  to 
plunge  her  young  stepson,  at  twenty-one  years  of  age,  inta 
dissipations  contrary  to  all  German  habits.  The  wicked  Ger- 
man hoped  that  English  horses,  Rhine  vinegar,  and  Goethe's 
Marguerites  would  ruin  the  Jewess's  child  and  shorten  his 
days ;  for  when  Fritz  came  of  age,  Uncle  Virlaz  had  handed 
over  a  very  pretty  fortune  to  his  nephew.  But  while  roulette 
at  Baden  and  elsewhere,  and  boon  companions  (Wilhelm 
Schwab  among  them)  devoured  the  substance  accumulated  by 
Uncle  Virlaz,  the  prodigal  son  himself  remained  by  the  will  of 
Providence  to  point  a  moral  to  younger  brothers  in  the 
free  city  of  Frankfort ;  parents  held  him  up  as  a  warning 
and  an  awful  example  to  their  offspring  to  scare  them  into 
steady  attendance  in  their  cast-iron  counting-houses,  hned 
with  silver  marks. 

But  so  far  from  perishing  in  the  flower  of  his  age,  Fritz 
Brunner  had  the  pleasure  of  laying  his  stepmother  in  one  of 
those  charming  little  German  cemeteries,  in  which  the  Teuton 
indulges  his  unbridled  passion  for  horticulture  under  the 
specious  pretext  of  honoring  his  dead.  And  as  the  second 
Mme.  Brunner  expired  while  the  authors  of  her  being  were 


68  COUSIN  PONS 

jet  alive,  Brunner  senior  was  obliged  to  bear  the  loss  of  the 
sums  of  which  his  wife  had  drained  his  coffers,  to  say  nothing 
of  other  ills  which  had  told  upon  a  Herculean  constitution,  till 
at  the  age  of  sixty-seven  the  innkeeper  had  wizened  and 
shrunk  as  if  the  famous  Borgia's  poison  had  undermined  his 
system.  For  ten  whole  years  he  had  supported  his  wife,  and 
now  he  inherited  nothing !  The  innkeeper  was  a  second  ruin 
of  Heidelberg,  repaired  continually,  it  is  true,  by  travelers' 
hotel  bills,  much  as  the  remains  of  the  castle  of  Heidel- 
berg itself  are  repaired  to  sustain  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
tourists  who  flock  to  see  so  fine  and  well-preserved  a  relic  of 
antiquity. 

At  Frankfort  the  disappointment  caused  as  much  talk 
as  a  failure.  People  pointed  out  Brunner,  saying,  "  See 
what  a  man  may  come  to  with  a  bad  wife  that  leaves  him 
nothing  and  a  son  brought  up  in  the  French  fashion." 

In  Italy  and  Germany  the  French  nation  is  the  root  of 
all  evil,  the  target  for  all  bullets.  "  But  the  god  pursu- 
ing his  way "  (For  the  rest,  see  Lefranc  de  Pcmpignan's 

Ode). 

The  wrath  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Grand  Hotel  de  Hol- 
lande  fell  on  others  besides  the  travelers,  whose  bills  were 
swelled  with  his  resentment.  When  his  son  was  utterly 
ruined,  Gideon,  regarding  him  as  the  indirect  cause  of  all  his 
misfortunes,  refused  him  bread  and  salt,  fire,  lodging,  and 
tobacco — the  force  of  the  paternal  malediction  in  a  German 
and  an  innkeeper  could  no  farther  go.  Whereupon  the  local 
authorities,  making  no  allowance  for  the  father's  misdeeds, 
regarded  him  as  one  of  the  most  ill-used  persons  in  Frank- 
fort-on-the-Main,  came  to  his  assistance,  fastened  a  quarrel 
on  Fritz  (une  querelle  d^Allemand),  and  expelled  him  from 
the  territory  of  the  free  city.  Justice  in  Frankfort  is  no 
whit  wiser  nor  more  humane  than  elsewhere,  albeit  the  city 
is  the  seat  of  the  German  Diet.  It  is  not  often  that  a  magis- 
trate traces  back  the  stream  of  wrongdoing  and  misfortune  to 
the  holder  of  the  urn  from  which  the  first  beginnings  trickled 
forth.  If  Brunner  forgot  his  son,  his  son's  friends  speedily 
followed  the  old  innkeeper's  example. 

Ah!  if  the  journalists,  the  dandies,   and  some  few   fair 


COUSIN  PONS  59 

Parisians  among  the  audience  wondered  how  that  German 
with  the  tragical  countenance  had  cropped  up  on  a  first  night 
to  occupy  a  side  box  all  to  himself  when  fashionable  Paris 
filled  the  house, — if  these  could  have  seen  the  history  played 
out  upon  the  stage  before  the  prompter's  box,  they  would 
have  found  it  far  more  interesting  than  the  transformation 
scenes  of  The  DeviVs  Betrothed,  though  indeed  it  was  the  two 
hundred  thousandth  representation  of  a  sublime  allegory 
performed  aforetime  in  Mesopotamia  three  thousand  years 
before  Christ  was  born. 

Fritz  betook  himself  on  foot  to  Strasbourg,  and  there  found 
what  the  prodigal  son  of  the  Bible  failed  to  find — to  wit,  a 
friend.  And  herein  is  revealed  the  superiority  of  Alsace, 
where  so  many  generous  hearts  beat  to  show  Germany  the 
beauty  of  a  combination  of  Gallic  wit  and  Teutonic  solidity. 
Wilhelm  Schwab,  but  lately  left  in  possession  of  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  by  the  dc^^^th  of  both  parents,  opened  his 
arms,  his  heart,  his  house,  his  purse  to  Fritz.  As  for  de- 
scribing Fritz's  feelings,  when  dusty,  down  on  his  luck,  and 
almost  like  a  leper,  he  crossed  the  Rhine  and  found  a  real 
twenty-franc  piece  held  out  by  the  hand  of  a  real  friend, — 
that  moment  transcends  the  powers  of  the  prose-writer; 
Pindar  alone  could  give  it  forth  to  humanity  in  Greek  that 
should  rekindle  the  dying  warmth  of  friendship  in  the 
world. 

Put  the  names  of  Fritz  and  Wilhelm  beside  those  of 
Damon  and  Pythias,  Castor  and  Pollux,  Orestes  and  Pylades, 
Dubreuil  and  Pmejah,  Schmucke  and  Pons,  and  all  the  names 
that  we  imagine  for  the  two  friends  of  Monomotapa,  for  la 
Fontaine  (man  of  genius  though  he  was)  has  made  of  them 
two  disembodied  spirits — they  lack  reality.  The  two  new 
names  may  join  the  illustrious  company,  and  with  so  much 
the  more  reason,  since  that  Wilhelm  who  had  helped  to  drink 
Fritz's  inheritance  now  proceeded,  with  Fritz's  assistance,  to 
devour  his  own  substance ;  smoking,  needless  to  say,  every 
known  variety  of  tobacco. 

The  pair,  strange  to  relate,  squandered  the  property  in  the 
dullest,  stupidest,  most  commonplace  fashion,  in  Strasbourg 
brasseries,  in  the  company  of  ballet-girls  of  the  Strasbourg 


60  COUSIN  PONS 

theaters,  and  little  Alsaciennes  who  had  not  a  rag  of  a 
tattered  reputation  left. 

Every  morning  they  would  say,  "  We  really  must  stop 
this,  and  make  up  our  minds  and  do  something  or  other  with 
the  money  that  is  left." 

"Pooh!"  Fritz  would  retort,  "just  one  more  day,  and 
to-morrow "    .    .     .    ah !  to-morrow. 

In  the  lives  of  Prodigal  Sons,  To-day  is  a  prodigious  cox- 
comb, but  To-morrow  is  a  very  poltroon,  taking  fright  at  the 
big  words  of  his  predecessor.  To-day  is  the  truculent  captain 
of  old  world  comedy.  To-morrow  the  clown  of  modem  panto- 
mime. 

When  the  two  friends  had  reached  their  last  thousand- 
franc  note,  they  took  places  in  the  mail-coach,  styled 
Royal,  and  departed  for  Paris,  where  they  installed  them- 
selves in  the  attics  of  the  Hotel  de  Rhin,  in  the  Rue  du  Mail, 
the  property  of  one  Graff,  formerly  Gideon  B runner's  head- 
waiter.  Fritz  found  a  situation  as  clerk  in  the  Kellers'  bank 
(on  Graff's  recommendation),  with  a  salary  of  six  hundred 
francs.  And  a  place  as  bookkeeper  was  likewise  found  for 
Wilhelm,  in  the  business  of  Graff  the  fashionable  tailor, 
brother  of  Graff  of  the  Hotel  du  Rhin,  who  found  the  scant- 
ily-paid employment  for  the  pair  of  prodigals,  for  the  sake 
of  old  times,  and  his  apprenticeship  at  the  Hotel  de  Hollande. 
These  two  incidents — the  recognition  of  a  ruined  man  by  a 
well-to-do  friend,  and  a  German  innkeeper  interesting  him- 
self in  two  penniless  fellow-countrymen — give,  no  doubt,  an 
air  of  improbability  to  the  story,  but  truth  is  so  much  the 
more  like  fiction,  since  modern  writers  of  fiction  have  been 
at  such  untold  pains  to  imitate  truth. 

It  was  not  long  before  Fritz,  a  clerk  with  six  hundred 
francs,  and  Wilhelm,  a  bookkeeper  with  precisely  the  same 
salary,  discovered  the  difficulties  of  existence  in  a  city  so  full 
of  temptations.  In  1837,  the  second  year  of  their  abode, 
Wilhehn,  who  possessed  a  pretty  talent  for  the  flute,  entered 
Pons's  orchestra,  to  eara  a  Httle  occasional  butter  to  put  on 
his  dry  bread.  As  to  Fritz,  his  only  way  to  an  increase  of 
income  lay  through  the  display  of  the  capacity  for  business 
inherited  by   a  descendant  of  the  Virlaz  family.     Yet,  in 


COUSIN  PONS  61 

spite  of  his  assiduity,  in  spite  of  abilities  which  possibly  may 
have  stood  in  his  way,  his  salary  only  reached  the  sum  of  two 
thousand  francs  in  1843.  Penury,  that  divine  stepmother, 
did  for  the  two  young  men  all  that  their  mothers  had  not 
been  able  to  do  for  them;  Poverty  taught  them  thrift  and 
worldly  wisdom ;  Poverty  gave  them  her  grand  rough  educa- 
tion, the  lessons  which  she  drives  with  hard  knocks  into  the 
heads  of  great  men,  who  seldom  know  a  happy  childhood. 
Fritz  and  Wilhelm,  being  but  ordinary  men,  learned  as  little 
as  they  possibly  could  in  her  school ;  they  dodged  the  blows, 
shrank  from  her  hard  breast  and  bony  arms,  and  never  dis- 
covered the  good  fairy  lurking  within,  ready  to  yield  to 
the  caresses  of  genius.  One  thing,  however,  they  learned 
thoroughly — they  discovered  the  value  of  money,  and  vowed 
to  clip  the  wings  of  riches  if  ever  a  second  fortune  should 
come  to  their  door. 

This  was  the  history  which  Wilhelm  Schwab  related  in  Ger- 
man, at  much  greater  length,  to  his  friend  the  pianist,  end- 
ing with — 

"  Well,  Papa  Schmucke,  the  rest  is  soon  explained.  Old 
Brunner  is  dead.  He  left  four  millions !  He  made  an  im- 
mense amount  of  money  out  of  Baden  railways,  though 
neither  his  son  nor  M.  Graff,  with  whom  we  lodge,  had  any 
idea  that  the  old  man  was  one  of  the  original  shareholders. 
I  am  playing  the  flute  here  for  the  last  time  this  evening;  I 
would  have  left  some  days  ago,  but  this  was  a  first  perform- 
ance, and  I  did  not  want  to  spoil  my  part." 

"  Goot,  mine  friend,"  said  Schmucke.  "  But  who  is  die 
prite?" 

"  She  is  Mile.  Graff,  the  daughter  of  our  host,  the  landlord 
of  the  Hotel  du  Rhin.  I  have  loved  Mile.  Emilie  these  seven 
years ;  she  has  read  so  many  immoral  novels,  that  she  refused 
all  offers  for  me,  without  knowing  what  might  come  of  it. 
She  will  be  a  very  wealthy  young  lady ;  her  uncles,  the  tailors 
in  the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  will  leave  her  all  their  money.  Fritz 
is  giving  me  the  money  we  squandered  at  Strasbourg  five 
times  over !  He  is  putting  a  million  francs  in  a  banking 
house,  M.  Graff  the  tailor  is  adding  another  five  hundred 
thousand  francs,  and  Mile.  Emilie's  father  not  only  allows 


62  COUSIN  PONS 

me  to  incorporate  her  portion — two  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand francs — with  the  capital,  but  he  himself  will  be  a  share- 
holder with  as  much  again.  So  the  firm  of  Brunner,  Schwab 
and  Company  will  start  with  two  million  five  hundred  thou- 
sand francs.  Fritz  has  just  bought  fifteen  hundred  thousand 
francs'  worth  of  shares  in  the  Bank  of  France  to 
guarantee  our  account  with  them.  That  is  not  all  Fritz's 
fortune.  He  has  his  father's  house  property,  supposed  to 
be  worth  another  million,  and  he  has  let  the  Grand  Hotel  de 
Hollande  already  to  a  cousin  of  the  Graffs." 

"  You  look  sad  ven  you  look  at  your  friend,"  remarked 
Schmucke,  who  had  listened  with  great  interest.  "  Kann 
you  pe  chealous  of  him.''  " 

"  I  am  jealous  for  Fritz's  happiness,"  said  Wilhelm. 
"Does  that  face  look  as  if  it  belonged  to  a  happy  man.'* 
I  am  afraid  of  Paris ;  I  should  like  to  see  him  do  as  I 
am  doing.  The  old  tempter  may  awake  again.  Of  our 
two  heads,  his  carries  the  less  ballast.  His  dress,  and  the 
opera-glass,  and  the  rest  of  it  make  me  anxious.  He  keeps 
looking  at  the  lorettes  in  the  house.  Oh!  if  you  only  knew 
how  hard  it  is  to  marry  Fritz.  He  has  a  horror  of  '  going 
a-courting,'  as  you  say;  you  would  have  to  give  him  a  drop 
into  a  family,  just  as  in  England  they  give  a  man  a  drop 
into  the  next  world." 

During  the  uproar  that  usually  marks  the  end  of  a  first 
night,  the  flute  delivered  his  invitation  to  the  conductor. 
Pons  accepted  gleefully ;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  three 
months,  Schmucke  saw  a  smile  on  his  friend's  face.  They 
went  back  to  the  Rue  de  Normandie  in  perfect  silence ;  that 
sudden  flash  of  joy  had  thrown  a  light  on  the  extent  of  the 
disease  which  was  consuming  Pons.  Oh  that  a  man  so 
truly  noble,  so  disinterested,  so  great  in  feeling,  should  have 
such  a  weakness!  .  .  .  This  was  the  thought  which 
struck  the  stoic  Schmucke  dumb  with  amazement.  He  grew 
woefully  sad,  for  he  began  to  see  that  there  was  no  help  for  it ; 
he  must  even  renounce  the  pleasure  of  seeing  "  his  goot  Bons  " 
opposite  him  at  the  dinner-table,  for  the  sake  of  Pons's  wel- 
fare ;  and  he  did  not  know  whether  he  could  give  him  up ;  the 
mere  thought  of  it  drove  him  distracted. 


COUSIN  PONS  63 

Meantime,  Pons's  proud  silence  and  withdrawal  to  the  Mons 
Aventinus  of  the  Rue  de  Normandie  had,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, impressed  the  Presidente,  not  that  she  troubled  her- 
self much  about  her  parasite,  now  that  she  was  freed  from 
him.  She  thought,  with  her  charming  daughter,  that  Cousin 
Pons  had  seen  through  her  little  "  Lili's  "  joke.  But  it  was 
otherwise  with  her  husband  the  President. 

Camusot  de  Marville,  a  short  and  stout  man,  grown 
solemn  since  his  promotion  at  the  Court,  admired  Cicero, 
preferred  the  Opera-Comique  to  the  Italiens,  compared  the 
actors  one  with  another,  and  followed  the  multitude  step  by 
step.  He  used  to  recite  all  the  articles  in  the  Ministerialist 
journals,  as  if  he  were  saying  something  original,  and  in 
giving  his  opinion  at  the  Council  Board  he  paraphrased 
the  remarks  of  the  previous  speaker.  His  leading  character- 
istics were  sufficiently  well  known ;  his  position  compelled  him 
to  take  everything  seriously ;  and  he  was  particularly  tena- 
cious of  family  ties. 

Like  most  men  who  are  ruled  by  their  wives,  the  President 
asserted  his  independence  in  trifles,  in  which  his  wife  was 
very  careful  not  to  thwart  him.  For  a  month  he  was  satis- 
fied with  the  Presidente's  commonplace  explanations  of  Pons's 
disappearance ;  but  at  last  it  struck  him  as  singular  that 
the  old  musician,  a  friend  of  forty  years'  standing,  should 
first  make  them  so  valuable  a  present  as  a  fan  that  belonged 
to  Mme.  de  Pompadour,  and  then  immediately  discontinue 
his  visits.  Count  Popinot  had  pronounced  the  trinket  a  mas- 
terpiece ;  when  its  owner  went  to  Court,  the  fan  had  been 
passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  her  vanity  was  not  a  little 
gratified  by  the  compliments  it  received ;  others  had  dwelt 
on  the  beauties  of  the  ten  ivory  sticks,  each  one  covered 
with  delicate  carving,  the  like  of  which  had  never  been  seen. 
A  Russian  lady  (Russian  ladies  are  apt  to  forget  that 
they  are  not  in  Russia)  had  offered  her  six  thousand  francs 
for  the  marvel  one  day  at  Count  Popinot's  house,  and  smiled 
to  see  it  in  such  hands.  Truth  to  tell,  it  was  a  fan  for  a 
duchess. 

"  It  cannot  be  denied  that  poor  Cousin  Pons  understands 
rubbish  of  that  sort -"  said  Cecile,  the  day  after  the  bid. 


64  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Rubbish !  "  cried  her  parent.  "  Wby,  Government  is  just 
about  to  buy  the  late  M.  le  Conseiller  Dusoramerard's  collec- 
tion for  three  hundred  thousand  francs  ;  and  the  State  and  the 
Municipality  of  Paris  between  them  are  spending  nearly  a 
million  francs  over  the  purchase  and  repair  of  the  Hotel  de 
Cluny  to  house  the  '  rubbish,'  as  you  call  it. — Such  '  rub- 
bish,' dear  child,"  he  resumed,  "  is  frequently  all  that  remains 
of  vanished  civilizations.  An  Etruscan  jar,  and  a  necklace, 
which  sometimes  fetch  forty  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  is 
'  rubbish '  which  reveals  the  perfection  of  art  at  the  time 
of  the  siege  of  Troy,  proving  that  the  Etruscans  were  Tro- 
jan refugees  in  Italy." 

This  was  the  President's  cumbrous  way  of  joking;  the 
short,  fat  man  was  heavily  ironical  with  his  wife  and 
daughter. 

"  The  combination  of  various  kinds  of  knowledge  required 
to  understand  such  '  rubbish,'  Cecile,"  he  resumed,  "  is  a 
science  in  itself,  called  archaeology.  Archaeology  compre- 
hends architecture,  sculpture,  painting,  goldsmiths'  work, 
ceramics,  cabinetmaking  (  a  purely  modem  art) ,  lace,  tapestry, 
— in  short,  human  handiwork  of  every  sort  and  description." 

"  Then  Cousin  Pons  is  learned  ?  "  said  Cecile. 

"Ah!  by  the  by,  why  is  he  never  to  be  seen  nowadays.'*  " 
asked  the  President.  He  spoke  with  the  air  of  a  man  in 
whom  thousands  of  forgotten  and  dormant  impressions  have 
suddenly  begun  to  stir,  and  shaping  themselves  into  one  idea, 
reach  consciousness  with  a  ricochet,  as  sportsmen  say. 

"  He  must  have  taken  offense  at  nothing  at  all,"  answered 
his  wife.  "  I  dare  say  I  was  not  as  fully  sensible  as  I  might 
have  been  of  the  value  of  the  fan  that  he  gave  me.  I  am 
ignorant  enough,  as  you  know,  of " 

"  You!  One  of  Serrin's  best  pupils,  and  you  don't  know 
Watteau.^  "  cried  the  President. 

"  I  know  Gerard  and  David  and  Gros  and  Girodet,  and 
M.  de  Forbin  and  M.  Turpin  de  Crisse " 

"  You  ought " 

"  Ought  what,  sir.'  "  demanded  the  lady,  gazing  at  her 
husband  with  the  air  of  a  Queen  of  Sheba. 

"  To  know  a  Watteau  when  you  see  it,  my  dear.     Watteau 


COUSIN  PONS  65 

is  very  much  in  fashion,"  answered  the  President  with  meek- 
ness that  told  plainly  how  much  he  owed  to  his  wife. 

This  conversation  took  place  a  few  days  before  that  night 
of  first  performance  of  The  DeviVs  Betrothed,  when  the 
vrhole  orchestra  noticed  how  ill  Pons  was  looking.  But  by 
that  time  all  the  circle  of  dinner-givers  who  were  used  to 
see  Pons's  face  at  their  tables,  and  to  send  him  on  errands, 
had  begun  to  ask  each  other  for  news  of  him,  and  uneasiness 
increased  when  it  was  reported  by  some  who  had  seen  him  that 
he  was  always  in  his  place  at  the  theater.  Pons  had  been 
very  careful  to  avoid  his  old  acquaintances  whenever  he  met 
them  in  the  streets ;  but  one  day  it  so  fell  out  that  he  met 
Count  Popinot,  the  ex-cabinet  minister,  face  to  face  in  a 
bric-a-brac  dealer's  shop  in  the  new  Boulevard  Beaumarchais. 
The  dealer  was  none  other  than  that  Monistrol  of  whom 
Pons  had  spoken  to  the  Presidente,  one  of  the  famous  and 
audacious  vendors  whose  cunning  enthusiasm  leads  them  to 
set  more  and  more  value  daily  on  their  wares ;  for  curiosities, 
they  tell  you,  are  growing  so  scarce  that  they  are  hardl}'  to 
be  found  at  all  nowadays. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Pons,  how  comes  it  that  we  never  see  you 
now.^  We  miss  you  very  much,  and  Mme.  Popinot  does  not 
know  what  to  think  of  your  desertion." 

"  M.  le  Comte,"  said  the  good  man,  "  I  was  made  to  feel 
in  the  house  of  a  relative  that  at  my  age  one  is  not  wanted 
in  the  world.  I  have  never  had  much  consideration  shown 
me,  but  at  any  rate  I  had  not  been  insulted.  I  have  never 
asked  anything  of  any  man,"  he  broke  out  with  an  artist's 
pride.  *'  I  have  often  made  myself  useful  in  return  for 
hospitality.  But  I  have  made  a  mistake,  it  seems :  I  am  in- 
definitely beholden  to  those  who  honor  me  by  allowing  me 
to  sit  at  table  with  them;  my  friends,  my  relatives.  .  .  . 
Well  and  good :  I  have  sent  in  my  resignation  as  smellfeast. 
At  home  I  find  daily  something  wliich  no  other  house  has 
offered  me — a  real  friend." 

The  old  artist's  power  had  not  failed  him;  with  tone  and 
gesture  he  put  such  bitterness  into  the  words,  that  the  peer 
of  France  was  struck  by  them.     He  drew  Pons  aside. 

"Come,  now,  mv  old  friend,  what  is  it.''     "SMiat  has  hurt 


66  COUSIN  PONS 

you?  Could  you  not  tell  me  in  confidence?  You  will  permit 
me  to  say  that  at  my  house  surely  you  have  always  met  with 
consideration " 

"  You  are  the  one  exception,"  said  the  artist.  "  And  be- 
sides, you  are  a  great  lord  and  a  statesman,  you  have  so  many 
things  to  think  about.  That  would  excuse  anything,  if 
there  were  need  for  it." 

The  diplomatic  skill  that  Popinot  had  acquired  in  the 
management  of  men  and  affairs  was  brought  to  bear  upon 
Pons,  till  at  length  the  story  of  his  misfortunes  in  the 
President's  house  was  drawn  from  him. 

Popinot  took  up  the  victim's  cause  so  warmly  that  he  told 
the  story  to  Mme.  Popinot  as  soon  as  he  went  home,  and 
that  excellent  and  noble-natured  woman  spoke  to  the  Presi- 
dente  on  the  subject  at  the  first  opportunity.  As  Popinot 
himself  likewise  said  a  word  or  two  to  the  President,  there 
was  a  general  explanation  in  the  family  of  Camusot  de 
Marville. 

Camusot  was  not  exactly  master  in  his  own  house ;  but 
this  time  his  remonstrance  was  so  well  founded  in  law  and 
in  fact,  that  his  wife  and  daughter  were  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge the  truth.  They  both  humbled  themselves  and  threw 
the  blame  on  the  servants.  The  servants,  first  bidden,  and 
then  chidden,  only  obtained  pardon  by  a  full  confession, 
which  made  it  clear  to  the  President's  mind  that  Pons  had 
done  rightly  to  stop  away.  The  President  displayed  him- 
self before  the  servants  in  all  his  masculine  and  magisterial 
dignity,  after  the  manner  of  men  who  are  ruled  by  their 
wives.  He  informed  his  household  that  they  should  be  dis- 
missed forthwith,  and  forfeit  any  advantages  which  their 
long  term  of  service  in  his  house  might  have  brought  them, 
unless  from  that  time  forward  his  cousin  and  all  those  who 
did  him  the  honor  of  coming  to  his  house  were  treated  as 
he  himself  was.  At  which  speech  Madeleine  was  moved  to 
smile. 

"  You  have  only  one  chance  of  salvation  as  it  is,"  con- 
tinued the  President.  "  Go  to  my  cousin,  make  your  excuses 
to  him,  and  tell  him  that  you  will  lose  your  situations  unless 
he  forgives  you,  for  I  shall  turn  you  all  away  if  he  does  not.'* 


COUSIN  PONS  67 

Next  morning  the  President  went  out  fairly  early  to  pay 
a  call  on  his  cousin  before  going  down  to  the  court.  The 
apparition  of  M.  le  Presidente  de  Marville,  announced  by 
Mme.  Cibot,  was  an  event  in  the  house.  Pons,  thus  honored 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  saw  reparation  ahead. 

"  At  last,  my  dear  cousin,"  said  the  President  after  the 
ordinary  greetings ;  "  at  last  I  have  discovered  the  cause  of 
your  retreat.  Your  behavior  increases,  if  that  were  possible, 
my  esteem  for  you.  I  have  but  one  word  to  say  in  that 
connection.  My  servants  have  all  been  dismissed.  My  wife 
and  daughter  are  in  despair ;  they  want  to  see  you  to  have 
an  explanation.  In  all  this,  my  cousin,  there  is  one  innocent 
person,  and  he  is  an  old  judge;  you  will  not  punish  me, 
will  you,  for  the  escapade  of  a  thoughtless  child  who  wished 
to  dine  with  the  Popinots?  especially  when  I  come  to  beg  for 
peace,  admitting  that  all  the  wrong  has  been  on  our  side? 
An  old  friendship  of  thirty-six  years,  even  suppose 
that  there  had  been  a  misunderstanding,  has  still  some  claims. 
Come,  sign  a  treaty  of  peace  by  dining  with  us  to-night " 

Pons  involved  himself  in  a  diffuse  reply,  and  ended 
by  informing  his  cousin  that  he  was  to  sign  a  marriage  con- 
tract that  evening ;  how  that  one  of  the  orchestra  was  not 
only  going  to  be  married,  but  also  about  to  fling  his  flute 
to  the  winds  to  become  a  banker. 

"  Very  well.     To-morrow." 

"  Mme,  la  Comtesse  Popinot  has  done  me  the  honor  of 
asking  me,  cousin.      She  was  so  kind  as  to  write " 

*'  The  day  after  to-morrow  then." 

"  M.  Brunner,  a  German,  my  first  flute's  future  partner, 
returns  the  compliment  paid  him  to-day  by  the  young 
couple " 

"  You  are  such  pleasant  company  that  it  is  not  surprising 
that  people  dispute  for  the  honor  of  seeing  you.  Very  well, 
next  Sunday.!^     Within  a  week,  as  we  say  at  the  courts .-^  " 

"  On  Sunday  we  are  to  dine  with  M.  Graff,  the  flute's 
father-in-law." 

"  Very  well,  on  Saturday !  Between  now  and  then  you 
will  have  time  to  reassure  a  little  girl  who  has  shed  tears 
already  over  her  fault.     God  asks  no  more  than  repentance; 


68  COUSIN  PONS 

you  will  not  be  more  severe  than  the  Eternal  Father  with 
poor  little  Cecile? " 

Pons,  thus  reached  on  his  weak  side,  again  plunged  into 
formulas  more  than  polite,  and  went  as  far  as  the  stairhead 
with  the  President. 

An  hour  later  the  President's  servants  arrived  in  a  troop 
on  poor  Pons's  second  floor.  They  behaved  after  the  manner 
of  their  kind ;  they  cringed  and  fawned ;  they  wept.  Made- 
leine took  M.  Pons  aside  and  flung  herself  resolutely  at  his 
feet. 

"  It  is  all  my  fault ;  and  ]Monsieur  knows  quite  well  that 
I  love  him,"  here  she  burst  into  tears.  "  It  was  vengeance 
boiling  in  my  veins ;  ^Monsieur  ought  to  throw  all  the  blame 
of  the  unhappy  aff'air  on  that.  We  are  all  to  lose  our 
pensions  .  .  .  Monsieur,  I  was  m£(d,  and  I  would  not 
have  the  rest  suff'er  for  my  fault.  ...  I  can  see  now 
well  enough  that  fate  did  not  make  me  for  Monsieur.  I 
have  come  to  my  senses,  I  aimed  too  high,  but  I  love  you  still. 
Monsieur.  These  ten  years  I  have  thought  of  nothing  but 
the  happiness  of  making  you  happy  and  looking  after  things 
here.  What  a  lot !  .  .  .  Oh !  if  Monsieur  but  knew  how 
much  I  love  him !  But  Monsieur  must  have  seen  it  through 
all  my  mischief-making.  If  I  were  to  die  to-morrow,  what 
v.ould  they  find.^ — A  will  in  your  favor,  Monsieur.  . 
Yes,  Monsieur,  in  my  trunk  under  my  best  things." 

Madeleine  had  set  a  responsive  chord  vibrating ;  the  passion 
inspired  in  another  may  be  unwelcome,  but  it  will  always  be 
gratifying  to  self-love ;  this  was  the  case  with  the  old 
bachelor.  After  generously  pardoning  Madeleine,  he  ex- 
tended his  forgiveness  to  the  other  servants,  promising  to  use 
his  influence  with  his  cousin  the  Presidente  on  their  behalf. 

It  was  unspeakably  pleasant  to  Pons  to  find  all  his  old 
enjoyments  restored  to  him  without  any  loss  of  self-respect. 
The  world  had  come  to  Pons,  he  had  risen  in  the  esteem  of 
his  circle ;  but  Schmucke  looked  so  downcast  and  dubious  when 
he  heard  the  story  of  the  triumph,  that  Pons  felt  hurt. 
When,  however,  the  kind-hearted  German  saw  the  sudden 
change  wrought  in  Pons's  face,  he  ended  by  rejoicing  with 
his  friend,  and  made  a  sacrifice  of  the  happiness  that  he  had 


COUSIN  PONS  69 

known  during  those  four  months  that  he  had  had  Pons  all  to 
himself.  Mental  suffering  has  this  immense  advantage  over 
physical  ills — when  the  cause  is  removed  it  ceases  at  once. 
Pons  was  not  like  the  same  man  that  morning.  The  old 
man,  depressed  and  visibly  failing,  had  given  place  to  the 
serenely  contented  Pons,  who  entered  the  Presidente's  house 
that  October  afternoon  with  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour's 
fan  in  his  pocket.  Schmucke,  on  the  other  hand,  pondered 
deeply  over  this  phenomenon,  and  could  not  understand  it ; 
your  true  stoic  never  can  understand  the  courtier  that  dwells 
in  a  Frenchman.  Pons  was  a  born  Frenchman  of  the  Em- 
pire ;  a  mixture  of  eighteenth  century  gallantry  and  that 
devotion  to  womankind  so  often  celebrated  in  songs  of  the 
type  of  Partant  pour  la  Syrie. 

So  Schmucke  was  fain  to  bury  his  chagrin  beneath  the 
flowers  of  his  German  philosophy ;  but  a  week  later  he  grew 
so  yellow  that  Mme.  Cibot  exerted  her  ingenuity  to  call  in 
the  parish  doctor.  The  leech  had  fears  of  icterus,  and  left 
Mme.  Cibot  frightened  half  out  of  her  wits  by  the  Latin  word 
for  an  attack  of  the  jaundice. 

Meantime  the  two  friends  went  out  to  dinner  together, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives.  For  Schmucke  it  was 
a  return  to  the  Fatherland ;  for  Johann  Graff  of  the  Hotel 
du  Rhin  and  his  daughter  Emilie,  Wolfgang  Graff  the  tailor 
and  his  wife,  Fritz  Brunner  and  Wilhelm  Schwab,  were  Ger- 
mans, and  Pons  and  the  notary  were  the  only  Frenchmen 
present  at  the  banquet.  The  Graffs  of  the  tailor's  business 
owned  a  splendid  house  in  the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  between  the 
Rue  Neuve-des-Petits-Champs  and  the  Rue  Villedo ;  they  had 
brought  up  their  niece,  for  Emilie's  father,  not  without 
reason,  had  feared  contact  with  the  very  mixed  society  of  an 
inn  for  his  daughter.  The  good  tailor  Graffs,  who  loved 
Emilie  as  if  she  had  been  their  own  daughter,  were  giving 
up  the  ground  floor  of  their  great  house  to  the  young  couple, 
and  here  the  bank  of  Brunner,  Schwab  and  Company  was 
to  be  established.  The  arrangements  for  the  marriage  had 
been  made  about  a  month  ago ;  some  time  must  elapse  before 
Fritz  Brunner,  author  of  all  this  felicity,  could  settle  his 
deceased  father's  affairs,  and  the  famous  firm  of  tailors  had 


70  COUSIN  PONS 

taken  advantage  of  the  delay  to  redecorate  the  first  floor 
and  to  furnish  it  very  handsomely  for  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom. The  offices  of  the  bank  had  been  fitted  into  the 
wino;  which  united  a  handsome  business  house  with  the  old 
hotel  at  the  back,  between  courtyard  and  garden. 

On  the  way  from  the  Rue  de  Normandie  to  the  Rue  de 
Richelieu,  Pons  drew  from  the  abstracted  Schmucke  the 
details  of  the  story  of  the  modern  prodigal  son,  for  whom 
Death  had  killed  the  fatted  innkeeper.  Pons,  but  newly 
reconciled  with  his  nearest  relatives,  was  immediately  smitten 
with  a  desire  to  make  a  match  between  Fritz  Brunner  and 
Cecile  de  Marville.  Chance  ordained  that  the  notary  was 
none  other  than  Berthier,  old  Cardot's  son-in-law  and  suc- 
cessor, the  sometime  second  clerk  with  whom  Pons  had  been 
wont  to  dine. 

"  Ah !  M.  Berthier,  you  here !  "  he  said,  holding  out  a  hand 
to  his  host  of  former  days. 

"  We  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  dinner 
lately;  how  is  it.''"  returned  the  notary.  "My  wife  has 
been  anxious  about  you.  We  saw  you  at  the  first  perform- 
ance of  The  DeviVs  Betrothed,  and  our  anxiety  became 
curiosity  .f*  " 

"  Old  folk  are  sensitive,"  replied  the  worthy  musician; 
"  they  make  the  mistake  of  being  a  century  behind  the  times, 
but  how  can  it  be  helped?  It  is  quite  enough  to  represent 
one  century — they  cannot  entirely  belong  to  the  century  which 
sees  them  die." 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  notary,  with  a  shrewd  look,  "  one  cannot 
run  two  centuries  at  once." 

"  By  the  bye,"  continued  Pons,  drawing  the  young  lawyer 
into  a  corner,  "  why  do  you  not  find  someone  for  my 
cousin  Cecile  de  Marville " 

"Ah!  why ?"  answered  Berthier.     "In  this  century, 

when  luxury  has  filtered  down  to  our  very  porters'  lodges, 
a  young  fellow  hesitates  before  uniting  his  lot  with  the 
daughter  of  a  President  of  the  Court  of  Appeal  in  Paris 
if  she  brings  him  onl}^  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  In  the 
rank  of  life  which  Mile,  de  Marville's  husband  would 
take,  the  wife  was  never  yet  known  that  did  not  cost  her 


COUSIN  PONS  71 

husband  three  thousand  francs  a  year;  the  interest  on  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  would  scarcely  find  her  in  pin- 
money.  A  bachelor  with  an  income  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
thousand  francs  can  live  on  an  entresol;  he  is  not  expected 
to  cut  any  figure ;  he  need  not  keep  more  than  one  servant, 
and  all  his  surplus  income  he  can  spend  on  his  amusements ; 
he  puts  himself  in  the  hands  of  a  good  tailor,  and  need  not 
trouble  any  further  about  keeping  up  appearances.  Far- 
sighted  mothers  make  much  of  him-  he  is  one  of  the  kings 
of  fashion  in  Paris. 

"  But  a  wife  changes  everything.  A  wife  means  a  properly 
furnished  house,"  continued  the  lawyer ;  "  she  wants  the 
carriage  for  herself;  if  she  goes  to  the  play,  she  wants  a 
box,  while  the  bachelor  has  only  a  stall  to  pay  for;  in  short, 
a  wife  represents  the  whole  of  the  income  which  the  bachelor 
used  to  spend  on  himself.  Suppose  that  husband  and  wife 
have  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year  between  them — prac- 
tically the  sometime  bachelor  is  a  poor  devil  who  thinks  twice 
before  he  drives  out  to  Chantilly.  Bring  children  on  the 
scene — he  is  pinched  for  money  at  once. 

"  Now,  as  M.  and  Mme.  de  Marville  are  scarcely  turned 
fifty,  Cecile's  expectations  are  bills  that  will  not  fall  due 
for  fifteen  or  twenty  years  to  come ;  and  no  young  fellow 
cares  to  keep  them  so  long  in  his  portfolio.  The  young 
featherheads  who  are  dancing  the  polka  with  lorettes  at  the 
Jardin  Mabille,  are  so  cankered  with  self-interest,  that  they 
don't  stand  in  need  of  us  to  explain  both  sides  of  the  problem 
to  them.  Between  ourselves,  I  may  say  that  Mile,  de  Marville 
scarcely  sets  hearts  throbbing  so  fast  but  that  their  owners 
can  perfectly  keep  their  heads,  and  they  are  full  of  these 
anti-matrimonial  reflections.  If  any  eligible  young  man,  in 
full  possession  of  his  senses  and  an  income  of  twenty  thousand 
francs,  happens  to  be  sketching  out  a  programme  of  a 
marriage  that  will  satisfy  his  ambitions,  Mile,  de  Marville 
does  not  altogether  answer  the  description " 

"  And  why  not.?  "  asked  the  bewildered  musician. 

"  Oh ! "  said  the  notary,  "  well a  young  man  nowa- 
days may  be  as  ugly  as  you  and  I,  my  dear  Pons,  but  he 
is  almost  sure  to  have  the  impertinence  to  want  six  hundred 


72  COUSIN  PONS 

thousand  francs,  a  girl  of  good  family,  with  wit  and  good 
looks  and  good  breeding — flawless  perfection  in  short." 

"  Then  it  will  not  be  easy  to  marry  her?  " 

"  She  will  not  be  married  so  long  as  M.  and  Mme.  de 
Marville  cannot  make  up  their  minds  to  settle  Marville  on 
her  when  she  marries ;  if  they  had  chosen,  she  might  have 
been  the  Vieomtesse  Popinot  by  now.  But  here  comes  M. 
Brunner. — We  are  about  to  read  the  deeds  of  partnership 
and  the  marriage  contract." 

Greetings  and  introductions  over,  the  relations  made  Pons 
promise  to  sign  the  contract.  He  listened  to  the  reading 
of  the  documents,  and  towards  half-past  five  the  party  went 
into  the  dining-room.  The  dinner  was  magnificent,  as  a  city 
merchant's  dinner  can  be,  when  he  allows  himself  a  respite 
from  monej^-making.  Graff  of  the  Hotel  du  Rhin  was  ac- 
quainted with  the  first  provision  dealers  in  Paris ;  never  had 
Pons  nor  Schmucke  fared  so  sumptuously.  The  dishes  were 
a  rapture  to  think  of!  Italian  paste,  delicate  of  flavor,  un- 
known to  the  public ;  smelts  fried  as  never  smelts  were  fried 
before ;  fish  from  Lake  Leman,  with  a  real  Genevese  sauce, 
and  a  cream  for  plum-pudding  which  would  have  astonished 
the  London  doctor  who  is  said  to  have  invented  it.  It  was 
nearly  ten  o'clock  before  they  rose  from  table.  The  amount 
of  wine,  German  and  French,  consumed  at  that  dinner  would 
amaze  the  contemporary  dandy ;  nobody  knows  the  amount 
of  liquor  that  a  German  can  imbibe  and  yet  keep  calm 
and  quiet ;  to  have  even  an  idea  of  the  quantity,  you  must 
dine  in  Gei*many  and  watch  bottle  succeed  to  bottle,  like 
wave  rippling  after  wave  along  the  sunny  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean,  and  disappear  as  if  the  Teuton  possessed 
ihe  absorbing  power  of  sponges  or  sea  sand.  Perfect 
harmony  prevails  meanwhile ;  there  is  none  of  the  racket 
that  there  would  be  over  the  liquor  in  France ;  the  talk  is 
as  sober  as  a  money-lender's  extempore  speech;  countenances 
flush,  like  the  faces  of  the  brides  in  frescoes  by  Cornelius 
or  Schnorr  (imperceptibly,  that  is  to  say),  and  reminiscences 
are  poured  out  slowly  while  the  smoke  puffs  from  the  pipes. 

About  half-past  ten  that  evening  Pons  and  Schmucke 
found  themselves  sitting  on  a  bench  out  in  the  garden  with 


COUSIN  PONS  73 

the  ex-flute  between  them;  they  were  explaining  their  char- 
acters, opinions,  and  misfortunes,  with  no  very  clear  idea 
as  to  why  or  how  they  had  come  to  this  point.  In  the  thick 
of  a  pot-pourri  of  confidences,  Wilhelm  spoke  of  his  strong 
desire  to  see  Fritz  married,  expressing  himself  with  vehement 
and  vinous  eloquence. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  this  programme  for  your  friend 
Brunner?"  cried  Pons  in  confidential  tones.  "A  charming 
and  sensible  young  lady  of  twenty-four,  belonging  to  a  family 
of  the  highest  distinction.  The  father  holds  a  very  high 
position  as  a  judge;  there  will  be  a  hundred  thousand  francs 
paid  down  and  a  million  to  come." 

"  Wait !  "  answered  Schwab ;  "  I  will  speak  to  Fritz  this 
instant." 

The  pair  watched  Brunner  and  his  friend  as  they  walked 
round  and  round  the  garden ;  again  and  again  they  passed 
the  bench,  sometimes  one  spoke,  sometimes  the  other. 

Pons  was  not  exactly  intoxicated ;  his  head  was  a  little 
heavy,  but  his  thoughts,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  all  the 
lighter;  he  watched  Fritz  Brunner's  face  through  the  rain- 
bow mist  made  of  fumes  of  wine,  and  tried  to  read  auguries 
favorable  to  his  family.  Before  very  long  Schwab  intro- 
duced his  friend  and  partner  to  M.  Pons ;  Fritz  Brunner 
expressed  his  thanks  for  the  trouble  which  Pons  had  been  so 
good  as  to  take. 

In  the  conversation  which  followed,  the  two  old  bachelors 
Schmucke  and  Pons  extolled  the  estate  of  matrimony,  going  so 
far  as  to  say,  without  any  malicious  intent,  "  that  marriage 
was  the  end  of  man."  Tea  and  ices,  punch  and  cakes, 
were  served  in  the  future  home  of  the  betrothed  couple. 
The  wine  had  begun  to  tell  upon  the  honest  merchants,  and 
the  general  hilarity  reached  its  height  when  it  was  an- 
nounced that  Schwab's  partner  thought  of  following  liis 
example. 

At  two  o'clock  that  morning,  Schmucke  and  Pons  walked 
home  along  the  boulevards,  philosophizing  a  perte  de  raison 
as  they  went  on  the  harmony  pervading  the  arrangements 
of  this  our  world  below. 

On  the  morrow  of  the  banquet.  Cousin  Pons  betook  himself 


74  COUSIN  PONS 

to  his  fair  cousin  the  Presidente,  overjoyed — poor  dear  noble 
soul! — to  return  good  for  evil.  Surely  he  had  attained  to 
a  sublime  height,  as  everyone  will  allow,  for  we  live  in 
an  age  when  the  Montyon  prize  is  given  to  those  who  do 
their  duty  by  carrying  out  the  precepts  of  the  Gospel. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Pons  to  himself,  as  he  turned  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  de  Choiseul,  "  they  will  lie  under  immense  obligations 
to  their  parasite." 

Any  man  less  absorbed  in  his  contentment,  any  man  of 
the  world,  any  distrustful  nature  would  have  watched  the 
President's  wife  and  daughter  very  narrowly  on  this  first 
return  to  the  house.  But  the  poor  musician  was  a  child, 
he  had  all  the  simplicity  of  an  artist,  believing  in  goodness 
as  he  believed  in  beauty ;  so  he  was  delighted  when  Cecile 
and  her  mother  made  much  of  him.  After  all  the  vaudevilles, 
tragedies,  and  comedies  which  had  been  played  under  the 
worthy  man's  eyes  for  twelve  long  years,  he  could  not  detect 
the  insincerity  and  grimaces  of  social  comedy,  no  doubt  be- 
cause he  had  seen  too  much  of  it.  Anyone  who  goes  into 
society  in  Paris,  and  knows  the  type  of  woman,  dried  up, 
body  and  soul,  by  a  burning  thirst  for  social  position,  and  a 
fierce  desire  to  be  thought  virtuous,  anyone  familiar  with 
the  sham  piety  and  the  domineering  character  of  a  woman 
whose  word  is  law  in  her  own  house,  may  imagine  the  lurking 
hatred  she  bore  this  husband's  cousin  whom  she  had  wronged. 

All  the  demonstrative  friendliness  of  mother  and  daughter 
was  lined  with  a  formidable  longing  for  revenge,  evidently 
postponed.  For  the  first  time  In  Amelie  de  Marvllle's  life  she 
had  been  put  in  the  wrong,  and  that  in  the  sight  of  the 
husband  over  whom  she  tyrannized ;  and  not  only  so — she  was 
obliged  to  be  amiable  to  the  author  of  her  defeat !  You  can 
scarcely  find  a  match  for  this  position  save  in  the  hypocritical 
dramas  which  are  sometimes  kept  up  for  years  in  the  sacred 
college  of  cardinals,  or  in  chapters  of  certain  religious 
orders. 

At  three  o'clock,  when  the  President  came  back  from 
the  law-courts.  Pons  had  scarcely  made  an  end  of  the  marvel- 
ous history  of  his  acquaintance,  M.  Frederic  Brunner. 
Cecile  had  gone  straight  to  the  point.     She  wanted  to  know 


COUSIN  PONS  75 

how  Frederic  Brunner  was  dressed,  how  he  looked,  his  height 
and  figure,  the  color  of  his  hair  and  eyes ;  and  when  she 
had  conjectured  a  distinguished  air  for  Frederic,  she  ad- 
mired his  generosity  of  character. 

"  Think  of  his  giving  five  hundred  thousand  francs  to 
his  companion  in  misfortune !     Oh !  mamma,  I  shall  have  a 

carriage  and  a  box  at  the  Italiens "     Cecile  grew  almost 

pretty  as  she  thought  that  all  her  mother's  ambitions  for  her 
were  about  to  be  realized,  that  the  hopes  which  had  almost 
left  her  were  to  come  to  something  after  all. 

As  for  the  Presidente,  all  that  she  said  was,  "  My  dear 
little  girl,  you  may  perhaps  be  married  within  the  fortnight." 

All  mothers  with  daughters  of  three-and-twenty  address 
them   as   "  little  girl." 

"  Still,"  added  the  President,  "  in  any  case,  we  must  have 
time  to  make  inquiries ;  never  will  I  give  my  daughter  to 
just  anybody " 

"  As  to  inquiries,"  said  Pons,  "  Berthier  is  drawing  up 
the  deeds.  As  to  the  young  man  himself,  my  dear  cousin, 
you  remember  what  you  told  me.'*  Well,  he  is  quite  forty 
years  old ;  he  is  bald.  He  wishes  to  find  in  family  life  a 
haven  after  storm ;  I  did  not  dissuade  him ;  every  man  has 
his  tastes " 

"  One  reason  the  more  for  a  personal  interview,"  returned 
the  President.  "  I  am  not  going  to  give  my  daughter  to  a 
valetudinarian." 

"  Very  good,  cousin,  you  shall  see  my  suitor  in  five  days 
if  you  like ;  for,  with  your  views,  a  single  interview  would 
be  enough  " — (Cecile  and  her  mother  signified  their  rapture) 
— "  Frederic  is  decidedly  a  distinguished  amateur ;  he  begged 
me  to  allow  him  to  see  my  little  collection  at  his  leisure.  You 
have  never  seen  my  pictures  and  curiosities;  come  and  see 
them,"  he  continued,  looking  at  his  relatives.  "  You  can 
come  simply  as  two  ladies,  brought  by  my  friend  Schmucke, 
and  make  M.  Brunner's  acquaintance  without  betraying  your- 
selves.    Frederic  need  not  in  the  least  know  who  you  are." 

"  Admirable !  "  cried  the  President. 

The  attention  they  paid  to  the  once  scorned  parasite  may 
be  left  to  the  imagination !     Poor  Pons  that  day  became  the 


76  COUSIN  PONS 

Presidente's  cousin.  The  happy  mother  drowned  her  dis- 
like in  floods  of  joj;  her  looks,  her  smiles,  her  words  sent 
the  old  man  into  ecstasies  over  the  good  that  he  had  done, 
over  the  future  that  he  saw  by  glimpses.  Was  he  not  sure 
to  find  dinners  such  as  yesterday's  banquet  over  the  signing 
of  the  contract,  multiplied  indefinitely  by  three,  in  the  houses 
of  Brunner,  Schwab,  and  Graff .?  He  saw  before  him  a 
land  of  plenty — a  vie  de  cocagne,  a  miraculous  succession  of 
jylats  converts,  of  delicate  surprise  dishes,  of  exquisite 
wines. 

"  If  Cousin  Pons  brings  this  through,"  said  the  President, 
addressing  his  wife  after  Pons  had  departed,  "  we  ought 
to  settle  an  income  upon  him  equal  to  his  salary  at  the 
theater." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  lady ;  and  Cecile  was  informed  that 
if  the  proposed  suitor  found  favor  in  her  eyes,  she  must 
undertake  to  induce  the  old  musician  to  accept  a  munificence 
in  such. bad  taste. 

Next  day  the  President  went  to  Berthler.  He  was  anxious 
to  make  sure  of  M.  Frederic  Brunner's  financial  position. 
Berthler,  forewarned  by  Mme.  de  Marville,  had  asked  his  new 
client  Schwab  to  come.  Schwab  the  banker  was  dazzled  by 
the  prospect  of  such  a  match  for  his  friend  (everybody  knows 
how  deeply  a  German  venerates  social  distinctions,  so  much 
so,  that  in  Germany  a  wife  takes  her  husband's  (official)  title, 
and  is  the  Frau  General,  the  Frau  Rath,  and  so  forth) — 
Schwab  therefore  was  as  accommodating  as  a  collector  who 
imagines  that  he  is  cheating  a  dealer. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  Cecile's  father,  "  as  I  shall  make 
over  my  estate  of  Marville  to  my  daughter,  I  should  wish 
the  contract  to  be  drawn  up  on  the  dotal  system.  In  that 
case,  M.  Brunner  would  Invest  a  million  francs  in  land  to 
increase  the  estate,  and  by  settling  the  land  on  his  wife 
he  would  secure  her  and  his  children  from  any  share  in  the 
liabilities  of  the  bank." 

Berthler  stroked  his  chin.  "  He  is  coming  on  well,  is 
M.  le  President,"  thought  he. 

When  the  dotal  system  had  been  explained  to  Schwab, 
he  seemed  much  Inclined  that  way  for  his  friend.     He  had 


COUSIN  PONS  7T 

heard  Fritz  say  that  he  wished  to  find  some  way  of  insuring^ 
himself  against  another  lapse  into  poverty. 

"  There  is  a  farm  and  pasture  land  worth  twelve  hundred 
thousand  francs  in  the  market  at  this  moment,"  remarked 
the  President. 

"  If  we  take  up  shares  in  the  Bank  of  France  to  the 
amount  of  a  million  francs,  that  will  be  quite  enough  to 
guarantee  our  account,"  said  Schwab.  "  Fritz  does  not  want 
to  invest  more  than  two  million  francs  in  business ;  he  will 
do  as  you  wish,  I  am  sure,  M.  le  President." 

The  President's  wife  and  daughter  were  almost  wild  with 
joy  when  he  brought  home  this  news.  Never,  surely,  did  so 
rich  a  capture  swim  so  complacently  into  the  nets  of  matri- 
mony. 

"  You  will  be  Mme.  Brunner  de  Marville,"  said  the  parent, 
addressing  his  child ;  "  I  will  obtain  permission  for  your 
husband  to  add  the  name  to  his,  and  afterwards  he  can  take 
out  letters  of  naturalization.  If  I  should  be  a  peer  of 
France  some  day,  he  will  succeed  me  !  " 

The  five  days  were  spent  by  Mme.  de  Marville  in  prepara- 
tions. On  the  great  day  she  dressed  Cecile  herself,  taking 
as  much  pains  as  the  admiral  of  the  British  fleet  takes  over 
the  dressing  of  the  pleasure  yacht  for  Her  Majesty  of 
England  when  she  takes  a  trip  to  Germany. 

Pons  and  Schwab,  on  their  side,  cleaned,  swept,  and  dusted 
Pons's  museum  rooms  and  furniture  with  the  agility  of 
sailors  cleaning  down  a  man-of-war.  There  was  not  a  speck 
of  dust  on  the  carved  wood ;  not  an  inch  of  brass  but  it 
glistened.  The  glasses  over  the  pastels  obscured  nothing 
of  the  work  of  Latour,  Greuze,  and  Liotard  (illustrious 
painter  of  The  Chocolate  Girl),  miracles  of  an  art,  alas! 
so  fugitive.  The  inimitable  luster  of  Florentine  bronze  took 
all  the  varying  hues  of  the  light ;  the  painted  glass  glowed 
with  color.  Every  line  shone  out  brilliantly,  every  object 
threw  in  its  phrase  in  a  harmony  of  masterpieces  arranged 
by  two  musicians — both  of  whom  alike  had  attained  to  be 
poets. 

With  a  tact  which  avoided  the  difficulties  of  a  late 
appearance  on  the  scene  of  action,  the  women  were  the  first 


78  COUSIN  PONS 

to  arrive;  they  wished  to  be  upon  their  own  ground.  Pons 
introduced  his  friend  Schmucke,  who  seemed  to  his  fair 
visitors  to  be  an  idiot ;  their  heads  were  so  full  of  the  eligible 
gentleman  with  the  four  millions  of  francs,  that  they  paid  but 
little  attention  to  the  worthy  Pons's  dissertations  upon  mat- 
ters of  which  they  were  completely  ignorant. 

They  looked  with  indifferent  eyes  at  Petitot's  enamels, 
spaced  over  crimson  velvet,  set  in  three  frames  of  marvelous 
workmanship.  Flowers  by  Van  Huysum,  David,  and  Heim; 
butterflies  painted  by  Abraham  Mignon;  Van  Eycks,  un- 
doubted Cranachs  and  Albrecht  Diirers ;  the  Giorgione,  the 
Sebastian  del  Piombo;  Backhuijzen,  Hobbema,  Gericault,  the 
rarities  of  painting — none  of  these  things  so  much  as  aroused 
their  curiosity ;  they  were  waiting  for  the  sun  to  arise  and 
shine  upon  these  treasures.  Still,  they  were  surprised  by  the 
beauty  of  some  of  the  Etruscan  trinkets  and  the  solid  value 
of  the  snuff-boxes,  and  out  of  politeness  they  went  into 
ecstasies  over  some  Florentine  bronzes  which  they  held  in 
their  hands  when  Mme.  Cibot  announced  M.  Brunner !  They 
did  not  turn ;  they  took  advantage  of  a  superb  Venetian 
mirror  framed  in  huge  masses  of  carved  ebony  to  scan  this 
phoenix  of  eligible  young  men. 

Frederic,  forewarned  by  W^ilhelm,  had  made  the  most  of 
the  little  hair  that  remained  to  him.  He  wore  a  neat  pair 
of  trousers,  a  soft  shade  of  some  dark  color,  a  silk  waistcoat 
of  superlative  elegance  and  the  very  newest  cut,  a  shirt 
with  open-work,  its  linen  hand-woven  by  a  Friesland  woman, 
and  a  blue-and-white  cravat.  His  watch  chain,  like  the 
head  of  his  cane,  came  from  Messrs.  Florent  and  Chanor ; 
and  the  coat,  cut  by  old  Graff  himself,  was  of  the  very  finest 
cloth.  The  Suede  gloves  proclaimed  the  man  who  had  run 
through  his  mother's  fortune.  You  could  have  seen  the 
banker's  neat  little  brougham  and  pair  of  horses  mirrored 
in  the  surface  of  his  speckless  varnished  boots,  even  if  two 
pairs  of  sharp  ears  had  not  already  caught  the  sound  of  the 
wheels  outside  in  the  Rue  de  Normandie. 

When  the  prodigal  of  twenty  years  is  a  kind  of  chrysalis 
from  which  a  banker  emerges  at  the  age  of  forty,  the  said 
banker   is   usually   an   observer  of  human   nature ;   and   so 


COUSIN  PONS  79 

much  the  more  shrewd  if,  as  in  Brunner's  case,  he  understands 
how  to  turn  his  German  simplicity  to  good  account.  He 
had  assumed  for  the  occasion  the  abstracted  air  of  a  man 
who  is  hesitating  between  family  life  and  the  dissipations 
of  bachelorhood.  This  expression  in  a  Frenchified  German 
seemed  to  Cecile  to  be  in  the  highest  degree  romantic ;  the 
descendant  of  the  Virlaz  was  a  second  Werther  in  her  eyes — 
where  is  the  girl  who  will  not  allow  herself  to  weave  a  little 
novel  about  her  marriage?  Cecile  thought  herself  the  hap- 
piest of  women  when  Brunner,  looking  round  at  the  magnifi- 
cent works  of  art  so  patiently  collected  during  forty  years, 
waxed  enthusiastic,  and  Pons,  to  his  no  small  satisfaction, 
found  an  appreciative  admirer  of  his  treasures  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life. 

"  He  is  poetical,"  the  young  lady  said  to  herself ;  "  he 
sees  millions  in  the  things,  A  poet  is  a  man  that  cannot 
count  and  leaves  his  wife  to  look  after  his  money — an  easy 
man  to  manage  and  amuse  with  trifles." 

Every  pane  in  the  two  windows  was  a  square  of  Swiss 
painted  glass  ;  the  least  of  them  was  worth  a  thousand  francs ; 
and  Pons  possessed  sixteen  of  these  unrivaled  works  of  art 
for  which  amateurs  seek  so  eagerly  nowadays.  In  1815  the 
panes  could  be  bought  for  six  or  ten  francs  apiece.  The 
value  of  the  glorious  collection  of  pictures,  flawless  great 
works,  authentic,  untouched  since  they  left  the  master's 
hands,  could  only  be  proved  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  a  saleroom. 
Not  a  picture  but  was  set  in  a  costly  frame ;  there  were 
frames  of  every  kind — Venetians,  carved  with  heavy  orna- 
ments, like  English  plate  of  the  present  day ;  Romans,  dis- 
tinguishable among  the  others  for  a  certain  dash  that  artists 
call  -flafla;  Spanish  wreaths  in  bold  relief;  Flemings  and 
Germans  with  quaint  figures,  tortoise-shell  frames  inlaid  with 
copper  and  brass  and  mother-of-pearl  and  ivory ;  frames  of 
ebony  and  boxwood  in  the  styles  of  Louis  Treize,  Louis 
Quatorze,  Louis  Quinze,  and  Louis  Seize — in  short,  it  was  a 
unique  collection  of  the  finest  models.  Pons,  luckier  than  the 
art  museums  of  Dresden  and  Vienna,  possessed  a  frame  by 
the  famous  Brustoloni — the  Michel  Angelo  of  wood-carvers. 

Mile,  de  Marville  naturally  asked  for  explanations  of  each 


80  COUSIN  PONS 

new  curiosity,  and  was  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  art 
by  Brunner.  Her  exclamations  were  so  childish,  she  seemed 
so  pleased  to  have  the  value  and  beauty  of  paintings,  carvings, 
or  bronzes  pointed  out  to  her,  that  the  German  gradually 
thawed  and  looked  quite  young  again,  and  both  were  led  on 
further  than  they  intended  at  this  (purely  accidental)  first 
meeting. 

The  private  view  lasted  for  three  hours.  Brunner  offered 
his  arm  when  Cecile  went  downstairs.  As  they  descended 
slowly  and  discreetly,  Cecile,  still  talking  fine  art,  wondered 
that  M.  Brunner  should  admire  her  cousin's  gimcracks  so 
much. 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  these  things  that  we  have  just 
seen  are  worth  a  great  deal  of  money  ?  " 

"  Mademoiselle,  if  your  cousin  would  sell  his  collection,  I 
would  give  eight  hundred  thousand  francs  for  it  this  evening, 
and  I  should  not  make  a  bad  bargain.  The  pictures  alone 
would  fetch  more  than  that  at  a  public  sale." 

"  Since  you  say  so,  I  believe  it,"  returned  she ;  "  the  things 
took  up  so  much  of  your  attention  that  it  must  be  so." 

"  Oh,  Mademoiselle  !  "  protested  Brunner.  "  For  all  an- 
swer to  your  reproach,  I  will  ask  your  mother's  permission 
to  call  so  that  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
again." 

"  How  clever  she  is,  that  '  little  girl '  of  mine ! "  thought 
the  Presidente,  following  closely  upon  her  daughter's  heels. 
Aloud  she  said,  "  With  the  greatest  pleasure,  Monsieur.  I 
hope  that  you  will  come  at  dinner-time  with  our  Cousin 
Pons.  The  President  will  be  delighted  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance.— Thank  you,  cousin." 

The  lady  squeezed  Pons's  arm  with  deep  meaning;  she 
could  not  have  said  more  if  she  had  used  the  consecrated 
formula,  "  Let  us  swear  an  eternal  friendship."  The  glance 
which  accompanied  that  "  Thank  you,  cousin,"  was  a  caress. 

When  the  young  lady  had  been  put  into  the  carriage,  and 
the  jobbed  brougham  had  disappeared  down  the  Rue  Chariot, 
Brunner  talked  bric-a-brac  to  Pons,  and  Pons  talked  mar- 
riage. 

"  Then  you  see  no  obstacle  ?  "  said  Pons. 


COUSIN  PONS  81 

"  Oh !  "  said  Brunner,  "  she  is  an  insignificant  little  thing, 
and  the  mother  is  a  trifle  prim. — We  shall  see." 

"  A  handsome  fortune  one  of  these  days.  .  ,  .  More 
than  a  million " 

"  Good-by  till  Monday  !  "  interrupted  the  millionaire.  "  If 
you  should  care  to  sell  your  collection  of  pictures,  I  would 
give  you  five  or  six  hundred  thousand  francs " 

"  Ah !  "  said  Pons ;  he  had  no  idea  that  he  was  so  rich. 
**  But  they  are  my  great  pleasure  in  life,  and  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  part  with  them.  I  could  only  sell  my  collec- 
tion to  be  delivered  after  my  death." 

"  Very  well.     We  shall  see." 

"  Here  we  have  two  affairs  afoot ! "  said  Pons ;  he  was 
thinking  only  of  the  marriage. 

Brunner  shook  hands  and  drove  away  in  his  splendid 
carriage.  Pons  watched  it  out  of  sight.  He  did  not  notice 
that  Remonencq  was  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  doorway. 

That  evening  Mme.  de  Marville  went  to  ask  advice  of  her 
father-in-law,  and  found  the  whole  Popinot  family  at  the 
Camusots'  house.  It  was  only  natural  that  a  mother  who  had 
failed  to  capture  an  eldest  son  should  be  tempted  to  take 
her  little  revenge;  so  Mme.  de  Marville  threw  out  hints  of 
the  splendid  marriage  that  her  Cecile  was  about  to  make. — 
"  Whom  can  Cecile  be  going  to  marry  ?  "  was  the  question 
upon  all  lips.  And  Cecile's  mother,  without  suspecting  that 
she  was  betraying  her  secret,  let  fall  words  and  whispered 
confidences,  afterwards  supplemented  by  Mme.  Berthier,  till 
gossip,  circulating  in  the  bourgeois  empyrean  where  Pons 
accomplished  his  gastronomical  evolutions,  took  something  like 
the  following  form: — 

"  Cecile  de  Marville  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  young 
German,  a  banker  from  philanthropic  motives,  for  he  has 
four  milHons ;  he  is  like  a  hero  of  a  novel,  a  perfect  Werther, 
charming  and  kind-hearted.  He  has  sown  his  wild  oats,  and 
he  is  distractedly  in  love  with  Cecile;  it  is  a  case  of  love 
at  first  sight;  and  so  much  the  more  certain,  since  Cecile 
had  all  Pons's  paintings  of  Madonnas  for  rivals,"  and  so 
forth  and  so  forth. 

Two  or  three  of  the  set  came  to  call  on  the  Presidente, 


82  COUSIN  PONS 

ostensibly  to  congratulate,  bvit  roally  to  find  out  whether  or 
no  the  marvelous  tale  were  true.  For  their  benefit  Mnie.  de 
Marville  executed  tlie  following  admirable  variations  on  the 
theme  of  son-in-law  which  mothers  may  consult,  as  people  used 
to  refer  to  the  Complete  Letter  }yriter. 

"  A  marriage  is  not  an  accomplished  fact,"  she  told  Mme. 
Chiffreville,  "  until  you  have  been  to  the  ma^'or's  oflice  and 
the  church.  We  have  only  come  as  far  as  a  personal  inter- 
view; so  I  count  upon  your  friendship  to  say  nothing  of 
our  hopes." 

""  You  are  very  fortunate,  Madame ;  marriages  are  so  diffi- 
cult to  arrange  in  these  days." 

"What  can  one  do?  It  was  chance;  but  marriages  are 
often  made  in  that  way." 

"Ah,  well!  So  you  are  going  to  marry  Ccclle.'' "  said 
Mme.  Cardot. 

"  Yes,"  said  Cecile's  mother,  fully  understanding  the  mean- 
ing of  the  "  so."  "  We  were  very  particular,  or  Cecile  would 
liave  been  established  before  this.  But  now  we  have  foinid 
everything  that  we  wish:  money,  good  temper,  good  character, 
and  good  looks;  and  my  sweet  little  girl  certainly  deserves 
nothing  less.  M.  Brunner  is  a  charming  young  man,  most 
distinguished;  he  is  fond  of  luxury,  he  knows  life;  he  is 
wild  about  C6cilc,  he  loves  her  sincerely ;  and  in  spite  of  his 
three  or  four  millions,  Cecile  is  going  to  accept  him. — ^We 
had  not  looked  so  high  for  her;  still,  store  is  no  sore." 

"  It  was  not  so  much  the  fortune  as  the  affection  inspired 
by  my  daughter  which  decided  us,"  the  Prcsidente  told  Mine. 
Lebas.  "  M.  Brunner  is  in  such  a  hurry  that  he  wants  the 
marriage  to  take  place  with  the  least  possible  delay." 

"  Is  he  a  foreigner.''  " 

"  Yes,  Madame ;  but  I  am  very  fortunate,  I  confess.  No, 
I  shall  not  have  a  son-in-law  in  him,  but  a  son.  M.  Brunner's 
delicacy  has  quite  won  our  hearts.  No  one  would  imagine 
how  anxious  he  was  to  marry  under  the  dotal  system.  It 
is  a  great  security  for  families.  He  is  going  to  invest  twelve 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  grazing  land,  which  will  be  added 
to  Marville   some  day." 

More  variations  followed  on  the  morrow.     For  instance — 


COUSIN  PONS  83 

M.  Brunner  was  a  great  lord,  doing  everything  in  lordly 
fashion ;  he  did  not  haggle.  If  M.  de  Marville  could  obtain 
letters  of  naturalization,  qualifying  M.  Brunner  for  an  office 
under  Government  (and  the  Home  Secretary  surely  could 
strain  a  point  for  M.  de  Marville),  his  son-in-law  would  be 
a  peer  of  France.  Nobody  knew  how  much  money  M. 
Brunner  possessed ;  "  he  had  the  finest  horses  and  the  smartest 
carriages  in  Paris !  "  and  so  on  and  so  on. 

From  the  pleasure  with  which  the  Camusots  published  their 
hopes,  it  was  pretty  clear  that  this  triumph  was  unexpected. 

Immediately  after  the  interview  in  Pons's  museum,  M.  de 
Marville,  at  his  wife's  instance,  begged  the  Home  Secretary, 
his  chief,  and  the  attorney  for  the  crown  to  dine  with  him 
on  the  occasion  of  the  introduction  of  this  phoenix  of  a  son- 
in-law. 

The  three  great  personages  accepted  the  invitation,  albeit 
it  was  given  on  short  notice ;  they  all  saw  the  part  that  they 
were  to  play  in  the  family  politics,  and  readily  came  to  the 
father's  support.  In  France  we  are  usually  pretty  ready  to 
assist  the  mother  of  marriageable  daughters  to  hook  an  eligi- 
ble son-in-law.  The  Count  and  Countess  Popinot  likewise 
lent  their  presence  to  complete  the  splendor  of  the  occasion, 
although  they  thought  the  invitation  in  questionable  taste. 

There  were  eleven  in  all.  Cecile's  grandfather,  old  Camu- 
sot,  came,  of  course,  with  his  wife  to  a  family  reunion  pur- 
posely arranged  to  elicit  a  proposal  from  M.  Brunner. 

The  Camusot  de  Marvilles  had  given  out  that  the  guest 
of  the  evening  was  one  of  the  richest  capitalists  in  Germany, 
a  man  of  taste  (he  was  in  love  with  "the  little  girl"),  a 
future  rival  of  the  Nucingens,  Kellers,  du  Tillets,  and  their 
like.  _  ^     . 

"  It  is  our  day,"  said  the  Presidente  with  elaborate  sim- 
plicity, when  she  had  named  her  guests  one  by  one  for  the 
German  whom  she  already  regarded  as  her  son-in-law.  "  We 
have  only  a  few  intimate  friends — first,  my  husband's  father, 
who,  as  you  know,  is  sure  to  be  raised  to  the  peerage ;  M. 
le  Comte  and  Mme.  la  Comtesse  Popinot,  whose  son  was 
not  thought  rich  enough  for  Cecile ;  the  Home  Secretary ;  our 
First  President ;  our  attorney  for  the  crown ;  our  personal 


84.  ,  COUSIN  PONS 

friends,  in  short. — We  shall  be  obliged  to  dine  rather  late 
to-night,  because  the  Chamber  is  sitting,  and  people  cannot 
get  away  before  six." 

Brunner  looked  significantly  at  Pons,  and  Pons  rubbed 
his  hands  as  if  to  say,  "  Our  friends,  you  see !     My  friends  !  " 

Mme.  de  Marville,  as  a  clever  tactician,  had  something 
very  particular  to  say  to  her  cousin,  that  Cecilie  and  her 
Werther  might  be  left  together  for  a  moment.  Cecile  chat- 
tered away  volubly,  and  contrived  that  Frederic  should  catch 
sight  of  a  German  dictionary,  a  German  grammar,  and  a 
volume  of  Goethe  hidden  away  in  a  place  where  he  was  likely 
to  find  them. 

"  Ah!  are  you  learning  German?  "  asked  Brunner,  flushing 
red. 

(For  laying  traps  of  this  kind  the  Frenchwoman  has  not 
her  match!) 

"  Oh !  how  naughty  you  are ! "  she  cried ;  "  it  is  too  bad 
of  you,  Monsieur,  to  explore  my  hiding-places  like  this.  1 
want  to  read  Goethe  in  the  original,"  she  added ;  "  I  have 
been  learning  German  for  two  years." 

"  Then  the  grammar  must  be  very  difficult  to  learn,  for 

scarcely  ten  pages  have  been  cut "  Brunner  remarked 

with  much   candor. 

Cecile,  abashed,  turned  away  to  hide  her  blushes.  A  Ger- 
man cannot  resist  a  display  of  this  kind ;  Brunner  caught 
Cecile's  hand,  made  her  turn,  and  watched  her  confusion 
under  his  gaze,  after  the  manner  of  the  heroes  of  the  novels 
of  Auguste  Lafontaine  of  chaste  memory. 

"  You  are  adorable,"  said  he. 

Cecile's  petulant  gesture  replied,  "  So  are  you — who  could 
help  liking  you.''" 

"  It  is  all  right,  mamma,"  she  whispered  to  her  parent, 
who  came  up  at  that  moment  with  Pons. 

The  sight  of  a  family  party  on  these  occasions  is  not  to 
be  described.  Everybody  was  well  satisfied  to  see  a  mother 
put  her  hand  on  an  eligible  son-in-law.  Compliments, 
double-barreled  and  double-charged,  were  paid  to  Brunner 
(who  pretended  to  understand  nothing)  ;  to  Cecile,  on  whom 
nothing  was  lost ;  and  to  the  President,  who  fished  for  them. 


COUSIN  PONS  85 

Pons  heard  the  blood  singing  in  his  ears,  the  Hght  of  all  the 
blazing  gas-jets  of  the  theater  footlights  seemed  to  be 
dazzling  his  ej'^es,  when  Cecile,  in  a  low  voice  and  with  the 
most  ingenious  circumspection,  spoke  of  her  father's  plan 
of  the  annuity  of  twelve  hundred  francs.  The  old  artist 
positively  declined  the  offer,  bringing  forward  the  value  of 
his  fortune  in  furniture,  only  now  made  known  to  him  by 
Brunner. 

The  Home  Secretary,  the  First  President,  the  attorney 
for  the  crown,  the  Popinots,  and  those  who  had  other  engage- 
ments, all  went ;  and  before  long  no  one  was  left  except  M. 
Camusot  senior,  and  Cardot  the  old  notary,  and  his  assistant 
and  son-in-law  Berthier.  Pons,  worthy  soul,  looking  round 
and  seeing  no  one  but  the  famil}^,  blundered  out  a  speech 
of  thanks  to  the  President  and  his  wife  for  the  proposal 
which  Cecile  had  just  made  to  him.  So  is  it  with  those  who 
are  guided  by  their  feelings ;  they  act  upon  impulse.  Brun- 
ner, hearing  of  an  annuity  offered  in  this  way,  thought  that 
it  had  very  much  the  look  of  a  commission  paid  to  Pons ;  he 
made  an  Israelite's  return  upon  himself,  his  attitude  told  of 
more  than  cool  calculation. 

Meanwhile  Pons  was  saying  to  his  astonished  relations, 
"  My  collection  or  its  value  will,  in  any  case,  go  to  your 
family,  whether  I  come  to  terms  with  our  friend  Brunner  or 
keep  it."  The  Camusots  were  amazed  to  hear  that  Pons  was 
so  rich. 

Brunner,  watching,  saw  how  all  these  ignorant  people 
looked  favorably  upon  a  man  once  believed  to  be  poor  so 
soon  as  they  knew  that  he  had  great  possessions.  He  had 
seen,  too,  already  that  Cecile  was  spoiled  by  her  father  and 
mother;  he  amused  himself,  therefore,  by  astonishing  the 
good  bourgeois. 

"  I  was  telling  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "  that  M.  Pons's 
pictures  were  worth  that  sum  to  me;  but  the  prices  of  works 
of  art  have  risen  so  much  of  late,  that  no  one  can  tell  how 
much  the  collection  might  sell  for  at  a  public  auction. 
The  sixty  pictures  might  fetch  a  milhon  francs ;  several 
that  I  saw  the  other  day  were  worth  fifty  thousand 
apiece." 


86  COUSIN  PONS 

"  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  your  heir !  "  remarked  old  Cardot, 
looking  at  Pons. 

"  My  heir  is  my  cousin  Cecile  here,"  answered  Pons,  in- 
sisting on  the  relationship.  There  was  a  flutter  of  admira- 
tion at  this, 

"  She  will  be  a  very  rich  heiress,"  laughed  old  Cardot, 
as  he  took  his  departure. 

Camusot  senior,  the  President  and  his  wife,  Cecile,  Brunner, 
Berthier,  and  Pons  were  now  left  together ;  for  it  was  assumed 
that  the  formal  demand  for  Cecile's  hand  was  about  to  be 
made.  No  sooner  was  Cardot  gone,  indeed,  than  Brunner 
began  with  an  inquiry  which  augured  well. 

"  I  think  I  understood,"  he  said,  turning  to  Mme.  de 
Marville,  "  that  mademoiselle  is  your  only  daughter." 

"  Certainly,"  the  lady  said  proudly. 

"  Nobody  will  make  any  difficulties,"  Pons,  good  soul, 
put  in  by  way  of  encouraging  Brunner  to  bring  out  his 
proposal. 

But  Brunner  grew  thoughtful,  and  an  ominous  silence 
brought  on  a  coolness  of  the  strangest  kind.  The  Presidente 
might  have  admitted  that  her  "  little  girl  "  was  subject  to 
epileptic  fits.  The  President,  thinking  that  Cecile  ought 
not  to  be  present,  signed  to  her  to  go.  She  went.  Still 
Brunner  said  nothing.  They  all  began  to  look  at  one  an- 
other.    The  situation  was  growing  awkward. 

Camusot  senior,  a  man  of  experience,  took  the  German 
to  Mme.  de  Marville's  room,  ostensibly  to  show  him  Pons's 
fan.  He  saw  that  some  difficulty  had  arisen,  and  signed 
to  the  rest  to  leave  him  alone  with  Cecile's  suitor-desig- 
nate. 

"  Here  is  the  masterpiece,"  said  Camusot,  opening  out  the 
fan. 

Brunner  took  it  in  his  hand  and  looked  at  it.  "  It  is 
worth  five  thousand  francs,"  he  said  after  a  moment. 

"  Did  you  not  come  here,  sir,  to  ask  for  my  grand- 
daughter.? "  inquired  the  future  peer  of  France. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Brunner ;  "  and  I  beg  you  to  believe 
that  no  possible  marriage  could  be  more  flattering  to  ray 
vanity.     I  shall  never  find  anyone  more  charming  nor  more 


COUSIN  PONS  87 

amiable  nor  a  young  lady  who  answers  to  my  ideas  like 
Mile.  Cecile ;  but " 

"  Oh,  not  buts!  "  old  Camusot  broke  in ;  "  or  let  us 
have  the  translation  of  your  '  buts '  at  once,  my  dear 
sir." 

"  I  am  very  glad,  sir,  that  the  matter  has  gone  no  further 
on  either  side,"  Brunner  answered  gravely.  "  I  had  no  idea 
that  Mile.  Cecile  was  an  only  daughter.  Anybody  else  would 
consider  this  an  advantage ;  but  to  me,  believe  me,  it  is  an 
insurmountable  obstacle  to " 

"  What,  sir ! "  cried  Camusot,  amazed  beyond  measure. 
"  Do  you  find  a  positive  drawback  in  an  immense  advantage? 
Your  conduct  is  really  extraordinary;  I  should  very  much 
like  to  hear  the  explanation  of  it." 

"  I  came  here  this  evening,  sir,"  returned  the  German 
phlegmatically,  "  intending  to  ask  M.  le  President  for  his 
daughter's  hand.  It  was  my  desire  to  give  Mile.  Cecile  a 
brilliant  future  by  offering  her  so  much  of  my  fortune  as  she 
would  consent  to  accept.  But  an  only  daughter  is  a  child 
whose  will  is  law  to  indulgent  parents,  who  has  never  been 
contradicted.  I  have  had  the  opportunity  of  observing  this 
in  many  families,  where  parents  worship  divinities  of  this  kind. 
And  your  granddaughter  is  not  only  the  idol  of  the  house, 
but  Mme.  la  Presidente  .  .  .  you  know  what  I  mean. 
I  have  seen  my  own  father's  house  turned  into  a  hell,  sir,  from 
this  very  cause.  My  stepmother,  the  source  of  all  my  mis- 
fortunes, an  only  daughter,  idolized  by  her  parents,  the  most 
charming  betrothed  imaginable,  after  marriage  became  a  fiend 
incarnate.  I  do  not  doubt  that  Mile.  Cecile  is  an  exception 
to  the  rule ;  but  I  am  not  a  young  man,  I  am  forty  years 
old,  and  the  difference  between  our  ages  entails  difficulties 
which  would  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  make  the  young 
lady  happy,  when  Mme.  la  Presidente  has  always  carried  out 
her  daughter's  every  wish  and  listened  to  her  as  if  made- 
moiselle was  an  oracle.  What  right  have  I  to  expect  Mile. 
Cecile  to  change  her  habits  and  ideas.?'  Instead  of  a  father 
and  mother  who  indulge  her  every  whim,  she  would  find  an 
egoistic  man  of  forty ;  if  she  should  resist,  the  man  of 
forty  would  have  the  worst  of  it.     So,  as  an  honest  man — 


«8  COUSIN  PONS 

I  withdraw.  If  there  should  be  any  need  to  explain  my  visit 
here,  I  desire  to  be  entirely  sacrificed " 

"  If  these  are  your  motives,  sir,"  said  the  future  peer  of 
France,  "  however  singular  they  may  be,  they  are  plaus- 
ible  " 

"  Do  not  call  my  sincerity  in  question,  sir,"  Brunner  in- 
terrupted quickly.  "  If  you  know  of  a  penniless  girl,  one  of 
a  large  family,  well  brought  up  but  without  fortune,  as 
happens  very  often  in  France ;  and  if  her  character  offers 
me  security,  I  will  marry  her." 

A  pause  followed ;  Frederic  Brunner  left  Cecile's  grand- 
father and  politely  took  leave  of  his  host  and  hostess.  When 
he  was  gone,  Cecile  appeared,  a  living  commentary  upon 
her  Werther's  leave-taking;  she  was  ghastly  pale.  She  had 
hidden  herself  in  her  mother's  wardrobe  and  overheard  the 
whole   conversation. 

"  Refused !  .  .  ."  she  said  in  a  low  voice  for  her 
mother's  ear. 

"  And  why  ?  "  asked  the  Presidente,  fixing  her  eyes  upon 
her  embarrassed  father-in-law. 

"  Upon  the  fine  pretext  that  an  only  daughter  is  a  spoilt 
child,"  replied  that  gentleman.  "  And  he  is  not  altogether 
wrong  there,"  he  added,  seizing  an  opportunity  of  putting 
the  blame  on  the  daughter-in-law,  who  had  worried  him  not  a 
little  for  twenty  years. 

"  It  will  kill  my  child !  "  cried  the  Presidente,  "  and  it  is 
your  doing !  "  she  exclaimed,  addressing  Pons,  as  she  sup- 
ported her  fainting  daughter,  for  Cecile  thought  well  to  make 
good  her  mother's  words  by  sinking  into  her  arms.  The 
President  and  his  wife  carried  Cecile  to  an  easy-chair,  where 
she  swooned  outright.  The  grandfather  rang  for  the  serv- 
ants. 

"  It  is  a  plot  of  his  weaving ;  I  see  it  all  now,"  said  the 
infuriated  mother. 

Pons  sprang  up  as  if  the  trump  of  doom  were  sounding 
in  his  ears. 

"  Yes ! "  said  the  lady,  her  eyes  like  two  springs  of  green 
bile,  "  this  gentleman  wished  to  repay  a  harmless  joke  by 
an  insult.     Who  will  believe  that  that  German  was  right  in 


COUSIN  PONS  89 

his  mind?  He  is  either  an  accomplice  in  a  wicked  scheme 
of  revenge,  or  he  is  crazy.  I  hope,  M.  Pons,  that  in  future 
you  will  spare  us  the  annoyance  of  seeing  you  in  the  house 
where  you  have  tried  to  bring  shame  and  dishonor." 

Pons  stood  like  a  statue,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet. 

"Well!  Are  you  still  here,  monster  of  ingratitude?" 
cried  she,  turning  round  on  Pons,  who  was  twirling  his 
thumbs. — "  Your  master  and  I  are  never  at  home,  remember, 
if  this  gentleman  calls,"  she  continued,  turning  to  the  serv- 
ants.— "  Jean,  go  for  the  doctor ;  and  bring  hartshorn, 
Madeleine." 

In  the  Presidente's  eyes,  the  reason  given  by  Brunner  was 
simply  an  excuse,  there  was  something  else  behind ;  but,  at 
the  same  time,  the  fact  that  the  marriage  was  broken  off  was 
only  the  more  certain.  A  woman's  mind  works  swiftly  in 
great  crises,  and  Mme.  de  Marville  had  hit  at  once  upon  the 
one  method  of  repairing  the  check.  She  chose  to  look  upon 
it  as  a  scheme  of  revenge.  This  notion  of  ascribing  a  fiendish 
scheme  to  Pons  satisfied  family  honor.  Faithful  to  her  dislike 
of  the  cousin,  she  treated  a  feminine  suspicion  as  a  fact. 
Women,  generally  speaking,  hold  a  creed  peculiar  to  them- 
selves, a  code  of  their  own ;  to  them  anything  which  serves 
their  interests  or  their  passions  is  true.  The  Presidente 
went  a  good  deal  further.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  she 
talked  the  President  into  her  belief,  and  next  morning  found 
the  magistrate  convinced  of  his  cousin's  culpability. 

Everyone,  no  doubt,  will  condemn  the  lady's  horrible  con- 
duct ;  but  what  mother  in  Mme.  Camusot's  position  will  not 
do  the  same?  Put  the  choice  between  her  own  daughter  and 
an  alien,  she  will  prefer  to  sacrifice  the  honor  of  the  latter. 
There  are  many  ways  of  doing  this,  but  the  end  in  view  is  the 
same. 

The  old  musician  fled  down  the  staircase  in  haste;  but  he 
went  slowly  along  the  boulevards  to  his  theater,  he  turned  in 
mechanically  at  the  door,  and  mechanically  he  took  his  place 
and  conducted  the  orchestra.  In  the  interval  he  gave  such 
random  answers  to  Schmucke's  questions,  that  his  old  friend 
dissembled  his  fear  that  Pons's  mind  had  given  way.     To  so 


90  COUSIN  PONS 

childlike  a  nature,  the  recent  scene  took  the  proportions  of  a 
catastrophe.  He  had  meant  to  make  everyone  happy,  and 
he  had  aroused  a  terrible  slumbering  feeling  of  hate ;  every- 
thing had  been  turned  topsy-turvy.  He  had  at  last  seen 
mortal  hate  in  the  Presidente's  eyes,  tones,  and  gesture. 

On  the  morrow,  Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville  made  a  great 
resolution;  the  President  like  .vise  sanctioned  the  step  now 
forced  upon  them  by  circumstances.  It  was  determined  that 
the  estate  of  Marville  should  be  settled  upon  Cecile  at  the 
time  of  her  marriage,  as  well  as  the  house  in  the  Rue  de 
Hanovre  and  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  In  the  course  of 
the  morning,  the  Presidente  went  to  call  upon  the  Comtesse 
Popinot ;  for  she  saw  plainly  that  nothing  but  a  settled 
marriage  could  enable  them  to  recover  after  such  a  check. 
To  the  Comtesse  Popinot  she  told  the  shocking  story  of 
Pons's  revenge,  Pons's  hideous  hoax.  It  all  seemed  probable 
enough  when  it  came  out  that  the  marriage  had  been  broken 
off  simply  on  the  pretext  that  Cecile  was  an  only  daughter. 
The  Presidente  next  dwelt  artfully  upon  the  advantage  of 
adding  "  de  Marville  "  to  the  name  of  Popinot ;  and  the 
immense  dowry.  At  the  present  price  fetched  by  land  in 
Normandy,  at  two  per  cent.,  the  property  represented  nine 
hundred  thousand  francs,  and  the  house  in  the  Rue  de 
Hanovre  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand.  No  reason- 
able family  could  refuse  such  an  alhance.  The  Comte  and 
Comtesse  Popinot  accepted ;  and  as  they  were  now  touched  by 
the  honor  of  the  family  which  they  were  about  to  enter, 
they  promised  to  help  to  explain  away  the  yesterday  even- 
ing's mishap. 

And  now  in  the  house  of  the  elder  Camusot,  before  the 
very  persons  who  had  heard  Mme.  de  Marville  singing 
Frederic  Brunner's  praises  but  a  few  days  ago,  that  lady, 
to  whom  nobody  ventured  to  speak  on  the  topic,  plunged 
courageously  into  explanations. 

"  Really,  nowadays,"  she  said,  "  one  could  not  be  too 
careful  if  a  marriage  was  in  question,  especially  if  one 
had  to  do  with  foreigners." 

"  And  why,  Madame?  " 

"What  has  happened  to  you.?"  asked  Mme.  Chiffreville. 


COUSIN  PONS  91 

"  Do  you  not  know  about  our  adventure  with  that  Brunner, 
who  had  the  audacity  to  aspire  to  marry  Cecile?  His  father 
was  a  German  that  kept  a  wine-shop,  and  his  uncle  is  a 
dealer  in  rabbit-skins !  " 

"Is  it  possible?  So  clearsighted  as  you  are!  .  .  ." 
murmured  a  lady. 

"  These  adventurers  are  so  cunnning.  But  we  found  out 
everything  through  Berthier.  His  friend  is  a  beggar  that 
plays  the  flute.  He  is  friendly  with  a  person  who  lets 
furnished  lodgings  in  the  Rue  du  Mail  and  some  tailor  or 
other.  .  .  .  We  found  out  that  he  had  led  a  most 
disreputable  life,  and  no  amount  of  fortune  would  be  enough 
for  a  scamp  that  has  run  through  his  mother's  property." 

"  Why,  Mile,  de  Marville  would  have  been  wretched ! " 
said  Mme.  Berthier. 

"  How  did  he  come  to  your  house.?  "  asked  old  Mme.  Lebas. 

"  It  was  M.  Pons.  Out  of  revenge,  he  introduced  this 
fine  gentleman  to  us,  to  make  us  ridiculous.  .  .  .  This 
Brunner  (it  is  the  same  name  as  Fontaine  in  French) — this 
Brunner,  that  was  made  out  to  be  such  a  grandee,  has  poor 
enough  health,  he  is  bald,  and  his  teeth  are  bad.  The  first 
sight  of  him  was  enough  for  me ;  I  distrusted  him  from  the 
first." 

"  But  how  about  the  great  fortune  that  you  spoke  of?  " 
a  young  married  woman  asked  shyly, 

"  The  fortune  was  not  nearly  so  large  as  they  said.  These 
tailors  and  the  landlord  and  he  all  scraped  the  money  to- 
gether among  them,  and  put  all  their  savings  into  this  bank 
that  they  are  starting.  What  is  a  bank  for  those  that  begin 
in  these  days.?  Simply  a  license  to  ruin  themselves.  A 
banker's  wife  may  lie  down  at  night  a  millionaire  and  wake 
up  in  the  morning  with  nothing  but  her  settlement.  At  the 
first  word,  at  the  very  first  sight  of  him,  we  made  up  our 
minds  about  this  gentleman — he  is  not  one  of  us.  You  can 
tell  by  his  gloves,  by  his  waistcoat,  that  he  is  a  working  man, 
the  son  of  a  man  that  kept  a  pot-house  somewhere  in 
Germany ;  he  has  not  the  instincts  of  a  gentleman ;  he  drinks 
beer,  and  he  smokes — smokes  ?  ah !  Madame,  t'wenty-f,ve  'pipes 
a  day!     .     .     .     What  would  have  become  of  poor  Lili.? 


92  COUSIN  PONS 

.  It  makes  me  shudder  even  now  to  think  of  it. 
God  has  indeed  preserved  us !  And  besides,  Cecile  never  liked 
him.  .  .  .  Who  would  have  expected  such  a  trick  from 
a  relative,  an  old  friend  of  the  house  that  had  dined  with 
us  twice  a  week  for  twenty  years?  We  have  loaded  him  with 
benefits,  and  he  played  his  game  so  well,  that  he  said  Cecile 
was  his  heir  before  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals  and  the  Attorney 
General  and  the  Home  Secretary!  .  .  .  That  Brunner 
and  M.  Pons  had  their  story  ready,  and  each  of  them  said 
that  the  other  was  worth  miUions !  .  .  .  No,  I  do  assure 
you,  all  of  you  would  have  been  taken  in  by  an  artist's  hoax 
like  that." 

In  a  few  weeks'  time,  the  united  forces  of  the  Camusot 
and  Popinot  families  gained  an  easy  victory  in  the  world, 
for  nobody  undertook  to  defend  the  unfortunate  Pons,  that 
parasite,  that  curmudgeon,  that  skinflint,  that  smooth- 
faced humbug,  on  whom  everybody  heaped  scorn ;  he  was 
a  viper  cherished  in  the  bosom  of  the  family,  he  had  not  his 
match  for  spite,  he  was  a  dangerous  mountebank  whom 
nobody  ought  to  mention. 

About  a  month  after  the  perfidious  Werther's  withdrawal, 
poor  Pons  left  his  bed  for  the  first  time  after  an  attack  of 
nervous  fever,  and  walked  along  the  sunny  side  of  the  street 
leaning  on  Schmucke's  arm.  Nobody  in  the  Boulevard  du 
Temple  laughed  at  the  "  pair  of  nut-crackers,"  for  one  of 
the  old  men  looked  so  shattered,  and  the  other  so  touchingly 
careful  of  his  invalid  friend.  By  the  time  that  they  reached 
the  Boulevard  Poissonniere,  a  little  color  came  back  to  Pons's 
face ;  he  was  breathing  the  air  of  the  boulevards,  he  felt 
the  vitalizing  power  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  crowded  street, 
the  life-giving  property  of  the  air  that  is  noticeable  in 
quarters  where  human  life  abounds ;  in  the  filthy  Roman 
Ghetto,  for  instance,  with  its  swarming  Jewish  population, 
where  malaria  is  unknown.  Perhaps,  too,  the  sight  of  the 
streets,  the  great  spectacle  of  Paris,  the  daily  pleasure  of 
his  life,  did  the  invalid  good.  They  walked  on  side  by  side, 
though  Pons  now  and  again  left  his  friend  to  look  at  the  shop 
windows.     Opposite  the  Theatre  des  Varietes  he  saw  Count 


COUSIN  PONS  93 

Popinot,  and  went  up  to  him  very  respectfully,  for  of  all 
men  Pons  esteemed  and  venerated  the  ex-Minister. 

The  peer  of  France  answered  him  severely — 

"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand,  sir,  how  you  can  have 
no  more  tact  than  to  speak  to  a  near  connection  of  a  family 
whom  you  tried  to  brand  with  shame  and  ridicule  by  a  trick 
which  no  one  but  an  artist  could  devise.  Understand  this, 
sir,  that  from  to-day  we  must  be  complete  strangers  to  each 
other.  Mme.  la  Comtesse  Popinot,  like  everyone  else,  feels 
indignant  at  your  behavior  to  the  Marvilles." 

And  Count  Popinot  passed  on,  leaving  Pons  thunderstruck. 
Passion,  justice,  policy,  and  great  social  forces  never  take 
into  account  the  condition  of  the  human  creature  whom 
they  strike  down.  The  statesman,  driven  by  family  consid- 
erations to  crush  Pons,  did  not  so  much  as  see  the  physical 
weakness  of  his  redoubtable  enemy. 

"  Vat  is  it,  mine  boor  friend  .^  "  exclaimed  Schmucke,  seeing 
how  white  Pons  had  grown. 

"  It  is  a  fresh  stab  in  the  heart,"  Pons  replied,  leaning 
heavily  on  Schmucke's  arm.  "  I  think  that  no  one,  save 
God  in  heaven,  can  have  any  right  to  do  good,  and  that  is 
why  all  those  who  meddle  in  His  work  are  so  cruelly  pun- 
ished." 

The  old  artist's  sarcasm  was  uttered  with  a  supreme 
effort ;  he  was  trying,  excellent  creature,  to  quiet  the  dismay 
visible  in  Schmucke's  face. 

"  So  I  dink,"  Schmucke  replied  simply. 

Pons  could  not  understand  it.  Neither  the  Camusots  nor 
the  Popinots  had  sent  him  notice  of  Cecile's  wedding. 

On  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  Pons  saw  M.  Cardot  coming 
towards  them.  Warned  by  Count  Popinot's  allocution.  Pons 
was  very  careful  not  to  accost  the  old  acquaintance  with  whom 
he  had  dined  once  a  fortnight  for  the  last  year;  he  lifted 
his  hat,  but  the  other,  mayor  and  deputy  of  Paris,  threw 
him  an  indignant  glance  and  went  by.  Pons  turned  to 
Schmucke. 

"  Do  go  and  ask  him  what  it  is  that  they  all  have  against 
me,"  he  said  to  the  friend  who  knew  all  the  details  of  the 
catastrophe  that  Pons  could  tell  him. 


94.  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Mennesir,"  Schmucke  began  diplomatically,  "  mine  friend 
Bons  is  chust  recof ering  from  an  illness ;  you  haf  no  doubt 
fail  to  rekognize  him?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  But  mit  vat  kann  you  rebroach  him  ?  " 

"  You  have  a  monster  of  ingratitude  for  a  friend,  sir ; 
if  he  is  still  alive,  it  is  because  nothing  kills  ill  weeds.  People 
do  well  to  mistrust  artists ;  they  are  as  mischievous  and  spite- 
ful as  monkeys.  This  friend  of  yours  tried  to  dishonor  his 
own  family,  and  to  blight  a  young  girl's  character,  in  revenge 
for  a  harmless  joke.  I  wish  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him ;  I  shall  do  my  best  to  forget  that  I  have  known  him, 
or  that  such  a  man  exists.  All  the  members  of  his  family 
and  my  own  share  the  wish,  sir ;  so  do  all  the  persons  who 
once  did  the  said  Pons  the  honor  of  receiving  him." 

"  Boot,  Mennesir,  you  are  a  reasonaple  mann ;  gif  you  vill 
bermit  me,  I  shall  exblain  die  aflPair " 

"  You  are  quite  at  liberty  to  remain  his  friend,  sir,  if 
you  are  minded  that  way,"  returned  Cardot,  "  but  you  need 
go  no  further ;  for  I  must  give  you  warning  that  in  my 
opinion  those  who  try  to  excuse  or  defend  his  conduct  are 
just  as  much  to  blame." 

"To  chustify  it?" 

"Yes,  for  his  conduct  can  neither  be  justified  nor  qualified." 
And  with  that  word,  the  deputy  for  the  Seine  went  his  way ; 
he  would  not  hear  another  syllable. 

"  I  have  two  powers  in  the  State  against  me,"  smiled 
poor  Pons,  when  Schmucke  had  repeated  these  savage 
speeches. 

"  Eferypody  is  against  us,"  Schmucke  answered  dolor- 
ously.    "  Let  us  go  avay  pefore  we  shall  meet  oder  fools." 

Never  before  in  the  course  of  a  truly  ovine  life  had 
Schmucke  uttered  such  words  as  these.  Never  before  had 
his  almost  divine  meekness  been  ruffled.  He  had  smiled  child- 
like on  all  the  mischances  that  befell  him,  but  he  could  not 
look  and  see  his  sublime  Pons  maltreated;  his  Pons,  his 
unknown  Aristides,  the  genius  resigned  to  his  lot,  the  nature 
that  knew  no  bitterness,  the  treasury  of  kindness,  the  heart 
of   gold!     .     .     .     Alceste's   indignation   filled    Schmucke's 


COUSIN  PONS  95 

soul — ^he  was  moved  to  call  Pons's  amphitryons  "  fools." 
For  his  pacific  nature  that  impulse  equaled  the  wrath  of 
Roland. 

With  wise  foresight,  Schmucke  turned  to  go  home  by  the 
way  of  the  Boulevard  du  Temple,  Pons  passively  submitting 
like  a  fallen  fighter,  heedless  of  blows ;  but  chance  ordered 
that  he  should  know  that  all  his  world  was  against  him. 
The  House  of  Peers,  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  strangers  and 
the  family,  the  strong,  the  weak,  and  the  innocent,  all  com- 
bined to  send  down  the  avalanche. 

In  the  Boulevard  Poissonniere,  Pons  caught  sight  of  that 
very  M.  Cardot's  daughter,  who,  young  as  she  was,  had 
learned  to  be  charitable  to  others  through  trouble  of  her  own. 
Her  husband  knew  a  secret  by  which  he  kept  her  in  bondage. 
She  was  the  only  one  among  Pons's  hostesses  whom  he  called 
by  her  Christian  name;  he  addressed  Mme.  Berthier  as 
"  Felicie,"  and  he  thought  that  she  understood  him.  The 
gentle  creature  seemed  to  be  distressed  by  the  sight  of 
Cousin  Pons,  as  he  was  called  (though  he  was  in  no  way 
related  to  the  family  of  the  second  wife  of  a  cousin  by 
marriage).  There  was  no  help  for  it,  however;  Felicie 
Berthier  stopped  to  speak  to  the  invalid. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  were  cruel,  cousin,"  she  said ;  "  but 
if  even  a  quarter  of  all  that  I  hear  of  you  is  true,  you  are 
very  false.  .  .  .  Oh!  do  not  justify  yourself,"  she  added 
quickly,  seeing  Pons's  significant  gesture,  "  it  is  useless,  for 
two  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  I  have  no  right  to  accuse  or 
judge  or  condemn  anybody,  for  I  myself  know  so  well  how 
much  may  be  said  for  those  who  seem  to  be  most  guilty ; 
secondly,  your  explanation  would  do  no  good.  M.  Berthier 
drew  up  the  marriage-contract  for  Mile,  de  Marville  and 
the  Vicomte  Popinot ;  he  is  so  exasperated,  that  if  he  knew 
that  I  had  so  much  as  spoken  one  word  to  you,  one  word 
for  the  last  time,  he  would  scold  me.  Everybody  is  against 
you." 

"  So  it  seems  indeed,  Madame,"  Pons  said,  his  voice  shaking 
as  he  lifted  his  hat  respectfully. 

Painfully  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  Rue  de  Normandie. 
The  old  Grerman  knew  from  the  heavy  weight  on  his  arm  that 


96  COUSIN  PONS 

his  friend  was  struggling  bravely  against  failing  physical 
strength.  That  third  encounter  was  like  the  verdict  of  the 
Lamb  at  the  foot  of  the  throne  of  God;  and  the  anger  of 
the  Angel  of  the  Poor,  the  symbol  of  the  Peoples,  is  the  last 
word  of  Heaven.     They  reached  home  without  another  word. 

There  are  moments  in  our  hves  when  the  sense  that  our 
friend  is  near  is  all  that  we  can  bear.  Our  wounds  smart 
under  the  consoling  words  that  only  reveal  the  depths  of  pain. 
The  old  pianist,  you  see,  possessed  a  genius  for  friendship, 
the  tact  of  those  who,  having  suffered  much,  know  the  customs 
of  suffering. 

Pons  was  never  to  take  a  walk  again.  From  one  illness 
he  fell  into  another.  He  was  of  a  sanguine-bilious  tempera- 
ment, the  bile  passed  into  the  blood,  and  a  violent  liver 
attack  was  the  result.  He  had  never  known  a  day's  illness 
in  his  life  till  a  month  ago;  he  had  never  consulted  a  doctor; 
so  La  Cibot,  with  almost  motherly  care  and  intentions  at 
first  of  the  very  best,  called  in  "  the  doctor  of  the  quarter." 

In  every  quarter  of  Paris  there  is  a  doctor  whose  name  and 
address  are  only  known  to  the  working  classes,  to  the  little 
tradespeople  and  the  porters,  and  in  consequence  he  is  called 
*'  the  doctor  of  the  quarter."  He  undertakes  confinement 
cases,  he  lets  blood,  he  is  in  the  medical  profession  pretty 
much  what  the  "  general  servant  "  of  the  advertising  column 
is  in  the  scale  of  domestic  service.  He  must  perforce  be  kind 
to  the  poor,  and  tolerably  expert  by  reason  of  much  practice, 
and  he  is  generally  popular.  Dr.  Poulain,  called  in  by  Mme. 
Cibot,  gave  an  inattentive  ear  to  the  old  musician's  complain- 
ings. Pons  groaned  out  that  his  skin  itched ;  he  had 
scratched  himself  all  night  long,  till  he  could  scarcely  feel. 
The  look  of  his  eyes,  with  the  yellow  circles  about  them, 
corroborated  the  symptoms. 

"  Had  you  some  violent  shock  a  couple  of  days  ago?  "  the 
doctor  asked  the  patient. 

"  Yes,  alas  !  " 

"  You  have  the  same  complaint  that  this  gentleman  was 
threatened  with,"  said  Dr.  Poulain,  looking  at  Schmucke 
as  he  spoke;  "  it  is  an  attack  of  jaundice,  but  you  will  soon 
get  over  it,"  he  added,  as  he  wrote  a  prescription. 


COUSIN  PONS  9% 

But  in  spite  of  that  comfortable  phrase,  the  doctor's  eyes 
had  told  another  tale  as  he  looked  professionally  at  the 
patient ;  and  the  death-sentence,  though  hidden  under  stereo- 
typed compassion,  can  always  be  read  by  those  who  wish 
to  know  the  truth.  Mme.  Cibot  gave  a  spy's  glance  at  the 
doctor,  and  read  his  thought ;  his  bedside  manner  did  not 
deceive  her ;  she  followed  him  out  of  the  room. 

"Do  you  think  he  will  get  over  it.?"  asked  Mme.  Cibot, 
at  the  stairhead. 

"  My  dear  Mme.  Cibot,  your  lodger  is  a  dead  man ; 
not  because  of  the  bile  in  the  system,  but  because  his  vitality 
is  low.  Still,  with  great  care,  your  patient  ma}-  pull  through. 
Somebody  ought  to  take  him  away  for  a  change " 

"  How  is  he  to  go.''  "  asked  Mme.  Cibot.  "  He  has  nothing 
to  live  upon  but  his  salary;  his  friend  has  just  a  little  money 
from  some  great  ladies,  very  charitable  ladies,  in  return  for 
his  services,  it  seems.  They  are  two  children.  I  have  looked 
after  them  for  nine  years." 

"  I  spend  ray  life  in  watching  people  die,  not  of  their 
disease,  but  of  another  bad  and  incurable  complaint — the 
want  of  money,"  said  the  doctor.  "  How  often  it  happens 
that  so  far  from  taking  a  fee,  I  am  obliged  to  leave  a  five- 
franc  piece  on  the  mantel-shelf  when  I  go " 

"  Poor,  dear  M.  Poulain  !  "  cried  Mme.  Cibot.  "  Ah,  if 
you  hadn't  only  the  hundred  thousand  livres  a  year,  what 
some  stingy  folks  has  in  the  quarter  (regular  devils  from 
hell  they  are),  you  would  be  like  Providence  on  earth." 

Dr.  Poulain  had  made  the  little  practice,  by  which  he  made 
a  bare  subsistence,  chiefly  by  winning  the  esteem  of  the 
porters'  lodges  in  his  district.  So  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
Heaven  and  thanked  Mme.  Cibot  with  a  solemn  face  worthy 
of  Tartuffe. 

"  Then  you  think  that  with  careful  nursing  our  dear 
patient  will  get  better,  my  dear  M.  Poulain  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  this  shock  has  not  been  too  much  for  him." 

"  Poor  man !  who  can  have  vexed  him.'^  There  isn't  nobody 
like  him  on  earth,  except  his  friend  M.  Schmucke.  I  will 
find  out  what  is  the  matter,  and  I  will  undertake  to  give 
them  that  upset  my  gentleman  a  hauling  over  the  coals " 


98  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Look  here,  my  dear  Mme.  Cibot,"  said  the  doctor  as  they 
stood  in  the  gateway,  "  one  of  the  principal  symptoms  of 
his  complaint  is  great  irritability;  and  as  it  is  hardly  to  be 
supposed  that  he  can  afford  a  nurse,  the  task  of  nursing  him 
will  fall  to  you.     So " 

"  Are  you  talking  of  Mouchieu  Ponsh?  "  asked  the  marine 
store-dealer.  He  was  sitting  cmoking  on  the  curb-post  in  the 
gateway,  and  now  he  rose  to  join  in  the  conversation. 

"  Yes,  Daddy  Remonencq." 

"  All  right,"  said  Remonencq,  "  ash  to  moneysh,  he  ish 
better  off  than  Mouchieur  Monishtrol  and  the  big  men  in  the 
curioshity  line.  I  know  enough  in  the  art  line  to  tell  you 
thish — the  dear  man  hash  treasursh !  "  he  spoke  with  a  broad 
Auvergne  dialect. 

"  Look  here,  I  thought  you  were  laughing  at  me  the  other 
day  when  my  gentlemen  were  out  and  I  showed  you  the  old 
rubbish  upstairs,"  said  Mme.  Cibot. 

In  Paris  wl^ere  walls  have  ears,  where  doors  have  tongues, 
and  window  bars  have  eyes,  there  are  few  things  more  danger- 
ous than  the  practice  of  standing  to  chat  in  a  gateway. 
Partings  are  like  postscripts  to  a  letter — indiscreet  utterances 
that  do  as  much  mischief  to  the  speaker  as  to  those  who 
overhear  them.  A  single  instance  will  be  sufficient  as  a 
parallel  to  an  event  in  this  history. 

In  the  time  of  the  Empire  when  men  paid  considerable 
attention  to  their  hair,  one  of  the  first  coiffeurs  of  the  day 
came  out  of  a  house  where  he  had  just  been  dressing  a  pretty 
"woman's  head.  This  artist  in  question  enjoyed  the  custom 
of  all  the  lower  floor  inmates  of  the  house ;  and  among  these, 
there  flourished  an  elderly  bachelor  guarded  by  a  house- 
keeper who  detested  her  master's  next-of-kin.  The  ci-devant 
young  man,  falling  seriously  ill,  the  most  famous  doctors 
of  the  day  (they  were  not  as  yet  styled  the  "princes  of 
science")  had  been  called  in  to  consult  upon  his  case;  and 
it  so  chanced  that  the  learned  gentlemen  were  taking  leave 
of  one  another  in  the  gateway  just  as  the  hairdresser  came 
cut.  They  were  talking  as  doctors  usually  talk  among  them- 
selves when  the  farce  of  a  consultation  is  over.  "  He  is  a 
dead  man,"  quoth  Dr.  Haudry. — "  He  has  not  a  month  to 


COUSIN  PONS  99 

live,"  added  Desplein,  "  unless  a  miracle  takes  place." — These 
were  the  words  overheard  by  the  hairdresser. 

Like  all  hairdressers,  he  kept  up  a  good  understanding 
with  his  customers'  servants.  Prodigious  greed  sent  the  man 
upstairs  again ;  he  mounted  to  the  ci-devant  young  man's 
apartment,  and  promised  the  servant-mistress  a  tolerably 
handsome  commission  to  persuade  her  master  to  sink  a  large 
proportion  of  his  money  in  an  annuity.  The  dying  bachelor, 
fifty-six  by  count  of  years,  and  twice  as  old  as  his  age  by 
reason  of  amorous  campaigns,  owned,  among  other  property, 
a  splendid  house  in  tlie  Rue  de  Richelieu,  worth  at  that  time 
about  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs.  It  was  this 
house  that  the  hairdresser  coveted ;  and  on  agreement  to 
pay  an  annuity  of  thirty  thousand  francs  so  long  as  the 
bachelor  lived,  it  passed  into  his  hands.  This  happened 
in  1806.  And  in  this  present  year  1846  the  hairdresser 
is  still  paying  that  annuity.  He  has  retired  from  business, 
he  is  seventy  years  old ;  the  ci-devant  young  man  is  in  his 
dotage ;  and  as  he  has  married  his  Mme.  Evrard,  he  may  last 
for  a  long  while  yet.  As  the  hairdresser  gave  the  woman 
thirty  thousand  francs,  his  bit  of  real  estate  has  cost  him, 
first  and  last,  more  than  a  million,  and  the  house  at  this  day 
is  worth  eight  or  nine  hundred  thousand  francs. 

Like  the  hairdresser,  Remonencq  the  Auvergnat  had  over- 
heard Brunner's  parting  remark  in  the  gateway  on  the  day 
of  Cecile's  first  interview  with  that  phcEnix  of  eligible  men. 
Remonencq  at  once  longed  to  gain  a  sight  of  Pons's  museum ; 
and  as  he  lived  on  good  terms  with  his  neighbors  the  Cibots, 
it  was  not  very  long  before  the  opportunity  came  one  day 
when  the  friends  were  out.  The  sight  of  such  treasures 
dazzled  him ;  he  saw  a  "  good  haul,"  in  dealers'  phrase,  which 
being  interpreted  means  a  chance  to  steal  a  fortune.  He 
had  been  meditating  this  for  five  or  six  days. 

"  I  am  sho  far  from  joking,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  Mme. 
Cibot's  remark,  "  that  we  will  talk  the  thing  over ;  and  if  the 
good  shentleman  will  take  an  annuity  of  fifty  thoushand 
francsh,  I  will  shtand  a  hamper  of  wine,  if " 

"  Fifty  thousand  francs !  "  interrupted  the  doctor ;  "  what 
are  you  thinking  about.''     Why,  if  the  good  man  is  so  well 


100  COUSIN  PONS 

off  as  that,  with  me  in  attendance,  and  Mme.  Cibot  to  nurse 
him,  he  may  get  better — for  liver  complaint  is  a  disease 
that  attacks  strong  constitutions." 

"Fifty,  did  I  shay?  Why,  a  shentleman  here,  on  your 
very  doorshtep,  offered  him  sheven  hundred  thoushand 
francsh,  shimply  for  the  pictursh,  fouchtra!  " 

While  Remonencq  made  this  announcement,  Mme.  Cibot 
was  looking  at  Dr.  Poulain.  There  was  a  strange  expression 
in  her  eyes ;  the  Devil  might  have  kindled  that  sinister  glitter 
in  their  tawny  depths. 

"  Oh,  come !  we  must  not  pay  any  attention  to  such  idle 
tales,"  said  the  doctor,  well  pleased,  however,  to  find  that  his 
patient  could  afford  to  pay  for  his  visits. 

"  If  my  dear  Mme.  Cibot,  here,  would  let  me  come  and  bring 
an  ekshpert  (shinsh  the  shentleman  upshtairs  ish  in  bed),  I 
will  shertainly  find  the  money  in  a  couple  of  hoursh,  even  if 
sheven  hundred  thoushand  francsh  ish  in  queshtion " 

"  All  right,  my  friend,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Now,  Mme. 
Cibot,  be  careful  never  to  contradict  the  invalid.  You  must 
be  prepared  to  be  very  patient  with  him,  for  he  will  find 
everything  irritating  and  wearisome,  even  your  services  ;  noth- 
ing will  please  him ;  you  must  expect  grumbling " 

"  He  will  be  uncommonly  hard  to  please,"  said  La  Cibot. 

"  Look  here,  mind  what  I  tell  you,"  the  doctor  said  in  a 
tone  of  authority,  "  M.  Pons's  life  is  in  the  hands  of  those 
that  nurse  him ;  I  shall  come  perhaps  twice  a  day.  I  shall 
take  him  first  on  my  round." 

The  doctor's  profound  indifference  to  the  fate  of  a  poor 
patient  had  suddenly  given  place  to  a  most  tender  solicitude 
when  he  saw  that  the  speculator  was  serious,  and  that  there 
was  a  possible  fortune  in  question. 

"  He  will  be  nursed  like  a  king,"  said  Mme.  Cibot,  forc- 
ing up  enthusiasm.  She  waited  till  the  doctor  turned  the 
corner  into  the  Rue  Chariot ;  then  she  fell  to  talking  again 
with  the  dealer  in  old  iron.  Remonencq  had  finished  smoking 
his  pipe,  and  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  shop,  leaning 
against  the  frame ;  he  had  purposely  taken  this  position ;  he 
meant  the  portress  to  come  to  him. 

The   shop    had    once   been    a    cafe.     Nothing    had    been 


COUSIN  PONS  101 

changed  there  since  the  Auvergnat  discovered  it  and  took  over 
the  lease ;  you  could  still  read  "  Cafe  de  Normandie  "  on  the 
strip  left  above  the  windows  in  all  modern  shops.  Remonencq 
had  found  somebody,  probably  a  house  painter's  apprentice, 
who  did  the  work  for  nothing,  to  paint  another  inscription 
in    the    remaining    space    below — "  Remonencq,"    it    ran, 

"  DEALER  IN   MARINE   STORES,   FURNITURE    BOUGHT  " painted 

in  small  black  letters.  All  the  mirrors,  tables,  seats,  shelves, 
and  fittings  of  the  Cafe  de  Normandie  had  been  sold,  as  might 
have  been  expected,  before  Remonencq  took  possession  of  the 
shop  as  it  stood,  paying  a  yearly  rent  of  six  hundred  francs 
for  the  place,  with  a  back  shop,  a  kitchen,  and  a  single  room 
above,  where  the  head  waiter  used  to  sleep,  for  the  house 
belonging  to  the  Cafe  de  Normandie  was  let  separately.  Of 
the  former  splendor  of  the  cafe,  nothing  now  remained  save 
the  plain  light  green  paper  on  the  walls,  and  the  strong  iron 
bolts  and  bars  of  the  shop-front. 

When  Remonencq  came  hither  in  1831,  after  the  Revolu- 
tion of  July,  he  began  by  displaying  a  selection  of  broken 
door-bells,  cracked  plates,  old  iron,  and  the  obsolete  scales 
and  weights  abolished  by  a  Government  which  alone  fails  to 
carry  out  its  own  regulations,  for  pence  and  halfpence  of  the 
time  of  Louis  XVI.  are  still  in  circulation.  After  a  time  this 
Auvergnat,  a  match  for  five  ordinary  Auvergnats,  bought  up 
old  saucepans  and  kettles,  old  picture-frames,  old  copper,  and 
chipped  china.  Gradually,  as  the  shop  was  emptied  and 
filled,  the  quality  of  the  stock-in-trade  improved,  like  Nicolet's 
farces.  Remonencq  persisted  in  an  unfailing  and  prodi- 
giously profitable  martingale,  a  "  system  "  which  any  philo- 
sophical idler  may  study  as  he  watches  the  increasing  value 
of  the  stock  kept  by  this  intelligent  class  of  trader.  Picture- 
frames  and  copper  succeed  to  tinware,  argand  lamps,  and 
damaged  crockery ;  china  marks  the  next  transition ;  and 
after  no  long  tarriance  in  the  "  omnium  gatherum  "  stage, 
the  shop  becomes  a  museum.  Some  day  or  other  the  dusty 
windows  are  cleaned,  the  interior  is  restored,  the  Auvergnat 
relinquishes  velveteen  and  jackets  for  a  great-coat,  and  there 
he  sits  like  a  dragon  guarding  his  treasure,  surrounded  by 
masterpieces !     He  is  a  cunning  connoisseur  by  this  time ;  he 


102  COUSIN  PONS 

has  increased  his  capital  tenfold ;  he  is  not  to  be  cheated ; 
he  knows  the  tricks  of  the  trade.  The  monster  among  his 
treasures  looks  like  some  old  hag  among  a  score  of  young 
girls  that  she  offers  to  the  public.  Beauty  and  miracles  of 
art  are  alike  indifferent  to  him;  subtle  and  dense  as  he  is, 
he  has  a  keen  eye  to  profits,  he  talks  roughly  to  those  who 
know  less  than  he  does ;  he  has  learned  to  act  a  part,  he 
pretends  to  love  his  pictures  and  his  marquetry,  or  he  tells 
you  that  he  is  short  of  money,  or  again  he  lets  you  know 
the  price  he  himself  gave  for  the  things,  he  offers  to  let 
you  see  the  memoranda  of  the  sale.  He  is  a  Proteus ;  in  one 
hour  he  can  be  Jocrisse,  Janot,  Queue-rouge,  Mondor,  Har- 
pagon,  or  Nicodeme. 

The  third  year  found  armor,  and  old  pictures,  and  some 
tolerably  fine  clocks  in  Remonencq's  shop.  He  sent  for  his 
sister,  and  La  Remonencq  came  on  foot  all  the  way  from 
Auvergne  to  take  charge  of  the  shop  while  her  brother  was 
away.  A  big  and  very  ugly  woman,  dressed  like  a  Japanese 
idol,  a  half-idiotic  creature  with  a  vague,  staring  gaze,  she 
would  not  bate  a  centime  of  the  prices  fixed  by  her  brother. 
In  the  intervals  of  business  she  did  the  work  of  the  house,  and 
solved  the  apparently  insoluble  problem — how  to  live  on  "  the 
mists  of  the  Seine."  The  Remonencqs'  diet  consisted  of 
bread  and  herrings,  with  the  outside  leaves  of  lettuce  or 
vegetable  refuse  selected  from  the  heaps  deposited  in  the 
kennel  before  the  doors  of  eating-houses.  The  two  between 
them  did  not  spend  more  than  fivepence  a  day  on  food 
(bread  included),  and  La  Remonencq  earned  the  money  by 
sewing  or  spinning. 

Remonencq  came  to  Paris  in  the  first  instance  to  work  as 
an  errand-boy.  Between  the  years  1825  and  1831  he  ran 
errands  for  dealers  in  curiosities  in  the  Boulevard  Beau- 
marchais  or  coppersmiths  in  the  Rue  de  Lappe.  It  is  the 
usual  start  in  life  in  his  line  of  business.  Jews,  Normans, 
Auvergnats,  and  Savoyards,  those  four  different  races  of 
men,  all  have  the  same  instincts,  and  make  their  fortunes 
in  the  same  way ;  they  spend  nothing,  make  small  profits,  and 
let  them  accumulate  at  compound  interest.  Such  is  their 
trading  charter,  and  that  charter  is  no  delusion. 


COUSIN  PONS  loa 

Remonencq  at  this  moment  had  made  it  up  with  his  old 
master  Monistrol;  he  did  business  with  wholesale  dealers,  he 
was  a  chineur  (the  technical  word),  plying  his  trade  in  the 
banlieue,  which,  as  everybody  knows,  extends  for  some  forty 
leagues  round  Paris. 

After  fourteen  years  of  business,  he  had  sixty  thousand 
francs  in  hand  and  a  well-stocked  shop.  He  lived  in  the  Rue 
de  Normandie  because  the  rent  was  low,  but  casual  customers 
were  scarce,  most  of  his  goods  were  sold  to  other  dealers, 
and  he  was  content  with  moderate  gains.  All  his  business 
transactions  were  carried  on  in  the  Auvergne  dialect  or 
charabia,  as  people  call  it. 

Remonencq  cherished  a  dream !  He  wished  to  establish 
himself  on  a  boulevard,  to  be  a  rich  dealer  in  curiosities, 
and  do  a  direct  trade  with  amateurs  some  day.  And,  indeed, 
within  him  there  was  a  formidable  man  of  business.  His 
countenance  was  the  more  inscrutable  because  it  was  glazed 
over  by  a  deposit  of  dust  and  particles  of  metal  glued 
together  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow ;  for  he  did  everything 
himself,  and  the  use  and  wont  of  bodily  labor  had  given 
him  something  of  the  stoical  impassibihty  of  the  old  soldiers 
of  1799. 

In  personal  appearance  Remonencq  was  short  and  thin; 
his  little  eyes  were  set  in  his  head  in  porcine  fashion;  a 
Jew's  slyness  and  concentrated  greed  looked  out  of  those 
dull  blue  circles,  though  in  his  case  the  false  humility  that 
masks  the  Hebrew's  unfathomed  contempt  for  the  Gentile 
was  lacking. 

The  relations  between  the  Cibots  and  the  Remonencqs  were 
those  of  benefactors  and  recipients.  Mme.  Cibot,  convinced 
that  the  Auvergnats  were  wretchedly  poor,  used  to  let  them 
have  the  remainder  of  "  her  gentlemen's  "  dinners  at  ridicu- 
lous prices.  The  Remonencqs  would  buy  a  pound  of  broken 
bread,  crusts  and  crumbs,  for  a  farthing,  a  porringer-full  of 
cold  potatoes  for  something  less,  and  other  scraps  in  pro- 
portion. Remonencq  shrewdly  allowed  them  to  believe  that 
he  was  not  in  business  on  his  own  account,  he  worked  for 
Monistrol,  the  rich  shopkeepers  preyed  upon  him,  he  said, 
and  the  Cibots  felt  sincerely  sorry  for  Remonencq.     The  vel- 


104  COUSIN  PONS 

veteen  jacket,  waistcoat,  and  trousers,  particularly  affected 
by  Auvergnats,  were  covered  with  patches  of  Cibot's  making, 
and  not  a  penny  had  the  little  tailor  charged  for  repairs 
which  kept  the  three  garments  together  after  eleven  years 
of  wear. 

Thus  we  see  that  all  Jews  are  not  in  Israel. 

"  You  are  not  laughing  at  me,  Remonencq,  are  you?  " 
asked  the  portress.  "  Is  it  possible  that  M.  Pons  has  such 
a  fortune,  living  as  he  does.f^  There  is  not  a  hundred  francs 
in  the  place " 

"  Amateursh  are  all  like  that,"  Remonencq  remarked  sen- 
tentiously. 

"  Then  do  you  think  that  my  gentleman  has  the  worth 
of  seven  hundred  thousand  francs,  eh? " 

"  In  pictures  alone,"  continued  Remonencq  (it  is  needless, 
for  the  sake  of  clearness  in  the  story,  to  give  any  further 
specimens  of  his  frightful  dialect).  "  If  he  would  take  fifty 
thousand  francs  for  one  up  there  that  I  know  of,  I  would 
find  the  money  if  I  had  to  hang  myself.  Do  you  remember 
those  little  frames  full  of  enameled  copper  on  crimson 
velvet,  hanging  among  the  portraits?  .  .  .  Well,  those 
are  Petitot's  enamels ;  and  there  is  a  cabinet  minister  as 
used  to  be  a  druggist  that  will  give  three  thousand  francs 
apiece   for   them." 

La  Cibot's  eyes  opened  wide.  "  There  are  thirty  of  them 
in  the  pair  of  frames !  "  she  said. 

"  Very  well,  you  can  judge  for  yourself  how  much  he  is 
worth." 

Mme.  Cibot's  head  was  swimming;  she  wheeled  round.  In 
a  moment  came  the  thought  that  she  would  have  a  legacy,  she 
would  sleep  sound  on  old  Pons's  will,  like  the  other  servant- 
mistresses  whose  annuities  had  aroused  such  envy  in  the 
Marais.  Her  thoughts  flew  to  some  commune  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Paris ;  she  saw  herself  strutting  proudly  about  her 
house  in  the  country,  looking  after  her  garden  and  poultry 
yard,  ending  her  days,  served  like  a  queen,  along  with  her 
poor  dear  Cibot,  who  deserved  such  good  fortune,  like  all 
angelic  creatures  whom  nobody  knows  nor  appreciates. 

Her  abrupt,  unthinking  movement  told  Remonencq  that 


COUSIN  PONS  105 

success  was  sure.  In  the  chineur^s  way  of  business — the 
chineur,  be  it  explained,  goes  about  the  country  picking  up 
bargains  at  the  expense  of  the  ignorant — in  the  chineur's 
way  of  business,  the  one  real  difficulty  is  the  problem  of  gain- 
ing an  entrance  to  a  house.  No  one  can  imagine  the  Scapin's 
roguery,  the  tricks  of  a  Sganarelle,  the  wiles  of  a  Dorine 
by  which  the  chineur  contrives  to  make  a  footing  for  himself. 
These  comedies  are  as  good  as  a  play,  and  founded  indeed 
on  the  old  stock  theme  of  the  dishonesty  of  servants.  For 
thirty  francs  in  money  or  goods,  servants,  and  especially 
country  servants,  will  sometimes  conclude  a  bargain  on  which 
the  chineur  makes  a  profit  of  a  thousand  or  two  thousand 
francs.  If  we  could  but  know  the  history  of  such  and  such 
a  service  of  Sevres  porcelain,  pate  tendre,  we  should  find 
that  all  the  intellect,  all  the  diplomatic  subtlety  displayed 
at  Miinster,  Nimeguen,  Utrecht,  Ryswick,  and  Vienna  was 
surpassed  by  the  chineur.  His  is  the  more  frank  comedy ; 
his  methods  of  action  fathom  depths  of  personal  interest 
quite  as  profound  as  any  that  plenipotentiaries  can  explore 
in  their  difficult  search  for  any  means  of  breaking  up  the  best 
cemented  alliances. 

"  I  have  set  La  Cibot  nicely  on  fire,"  Remonencq  told  his 
sister,  when  she  came  to  take  up  her  position  again  on  the 
ramshackle  chair.  "  And  now,"  he  continued,  "  I  shall  go  to 
consult  the  only  man  that  knows,  our  Jew,  a  good  sort  of 
Jew  that  did  not  ask  more  than  fifteen  per  cent,  of  us  for 
his  money." 

Remonencq  had  read  La  Cibot's  heart.  To  will  is  to  act 
with  women  of  her  stamp.  Let  them  see  the  end  in  view ; 
they  will  stick  at  nothing  to  gain  it,  and  pass  from  scrupulous 
honesty  to  the  last  degree  of  scoundrelism  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye.  Honesty,  like  most  dispositions  of  mind,  is  divided 
into  two  classes — negative  and  positive.  La  Cibot's  honesty 
was  of  the  negative  order ;  she  and  her  like  are  honest  until 
they  see  their  way  clear  to  gain  money  belonging  to  some- 
body else.  Positive  honesty,  the  honesty  of  the  bank  col- 
lector, can  wade  knee-deep  through  temptations. 

A  torrent  of  evil  thoughts  invaded  La  Cibot's  heart  and 
brain  so  soon  as  Remonencq's  diabolical  suggestion  opened 


106  COUSIN  PONS 

the  floodgates  of  self-interest.  La  Cibot  climbed,  or,  to  be 
more  accurate,  fled  up  the  stairs,  opened  the  door  on  the 
landing,  and  showed  a  face  disguised  in  false  solicitude  in 
the  doorway  of  the  room  where  Pons  and  Schmucke  were  be- 
moaning themselves.  As  soon  as  she  came  in,  Schmucke  made 
her  a  warning  sign ;  for,  true  friend  and  sublime  German 
that  he  was,  he  too  had  read  the  doctor's  eyes,  and  he  was 
afraid  that  Mme.  Cibot  might  repeat  the  verdict.  Mme. 
Cibot  answered  by  a  shake  of  the  head  indicative  of  deep 
woe. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Monsieur,"  asked  she,  "  how  are  you  feel- 
ing.? "  Sbe  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  hands  on  hips, 
and  fixed  her  eyes  lovingly  upon  the  patient ;  but  what  a 
glitter  of  metal  there  was  in  them,  a  terrible,  tiger-like 
gleam  if  anyone  had  watched  her. 

"  I  feel  very  ill,"  answered  poor  Pons.  "  I  have  not  the 
slightest  appetite  left. — Oh !  the  world,  the  world ! "  he 
groaned,  squeezing  Schmucke's  hand.  Schmucke  was  sitting 
by  his  bedside,  and  doubtless  the  sick  man  was  talking  of  the 
causes  of  his  illness. — "  I  should  have  done  far  better  to 
follow  your  advice,  my  good  Schmucke,  and  dined  here  every 
day,  and  given  up  going  into  this  society,  that  has  fallen 
on  me  with  all  its  weight,  like  a  tumbril  cart  crushing  an 
egg !     And  why  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  don't  complain,  M.  Pons,"  said  La  Cibot ; 
"  the  doctor  told  me  just  how  it  is " 

Schmucke  tugged  at  her  gown. — "  And  you  will  pull 
through,"  she  continued,  "  only  we  must  take  great  care  of 
you.  Be  easy,  you  have  a  good  friend  beside  you,  and  with- 
out boasting,  a  woman  as  will  nurse  you  like  a  mother  nurses 
her  first  child.  I  nursed  Cibot  round  once  when  Dr.  Poulain 
had  given  him  over ;  he  had  the  shroud  up  to  his  eyes,  as 
the  saying  is,  and  they  gave  him  up  for  dead.  Well,  well, 
you  have  not  come  to  that  yet,  God  be  thanked,  ill  though 
you  may  be.  Count  on  me ;  I  would  pull  you  through 
all  by  myself,  I  would!  Keep  still,  don't  you  fidget  like 
that." 

She  pulled  the  coverlet  over  the  patient's  hands  as  she 
spoke. 


COUSIN  PONS  107 

"  There,  sonny !  M.  Schmucke  and  I  will  sit  up  with 
you  of  nights.  A  prince  won't  be  no  better  nursed  . 
and  besides,  you  needn't  refuse  yourself  nothing  that's  neces- 
sary, you  can  afford  it. — I  have  just  been  talking  things 
over  with  Cibot,  for  what  would  he  do  without  me,  poor 
dear? — Well,  and  I  talked  him  round;  we  are  both  so  fond 
of  you,  that  he  will  let  me  stop  up  with  you  of  a  night. 
And  that  is  a  good  deal  to  ask  of  a  man  like  him,  for  he 
is  as  fond  of  me  as  ever  he  was  the  day  we  were  married. 
I  don't  know  how  it  is.  It  is  the  lodge,  you  see ;  we  are 
always  there  together!  Don't  you  throw  off  the  things  like 
that !  "  she  cried,  making  a  dash  for  the  bedhead  to  draw 
the  coverlet  over  Pons's  chest.  "  If  you  are  not  good,  and 
don't  do  just  as  Dr.  Poulain  says — and  Dr.  Poulain  is  the 
image  of  Providence  on  earth — I  will  have  no  more  to  do  with 
you.     You  must  do  as  I  tell  you " 

"  Yes,  Montame  Zipod,  he  vill  do  vat  you  tell  him,"  put 
in  Schmucke ;  "  he  vants  to  lif  for  his  boor  friend  Schmucke's 
sake,  I'll  pe  pound." 

"  And  of  all  things,  don't  fidget  yourself,"  continued  La 
Cibot,  "  for  your  illness  makes  you  quite  bad  enough  without 
your  making  it  worse  for  want  of  patience.  God  sends  us 
our  troubles,  my  dear  good  gentleman ;  He  punishes  us  for 
our  sins.  Haven't  you  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with.^* 
some  poor  little  bit  of  a  fault  or  other.?  " 

The  invalid  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh !  go  on !  You  were  young  once,  you  had  your  fling, 
there  is  some  love-child  of  yours  somewhere — cold,  and  starv- 
ing, and  homeless.  .  .  .  What  monsters  men  are !  Their 
love  doesn't  last  only  for  a  day,  and  then  in  a  jiffy  they 
forget,  they  don't  so  much  as  think  of  the  child  at  the 
breast  for  months.     .     .     .     Poor  women ! " 

"  But  no  one  has  ever  loved  me  except  Schmucke  and  my 
mother,"  poor  Pons  broke  in  sadly. 

"  Oh !  come,  you  aren't  no  saint !  You  were  young  in 
your  time,  and  a  fine-looking  young  fellow  you  must  have 
been  at  twenty.  I  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  you 
m3^self,  so  nice  as  you  are " 

"  I  always  was  as  ugly  as  a  toad,"  Pons  put  in  desperately. 


108  COUSIN  PONS 

"  You  say  that  because  you  are  modest ;  nobody  can't 
say  that  you  aren't  modest." 

"  My  dear  Mme.  Cibot,  no,  I  tell  you.  I  always  was 
ugly,  and  I  never  was  loved  in  my  life." 

"  You,  indeed !  "  cried  the  portress.  "  You  want  to  make 
me  believe  at  this  time  of  day  that  you  are  as  innocent  as 
a  young  maid  at  your  time  of  life.  Tell  that  to  your 
granny !  A  musician  at  a  theater,  too !  Why,  if  a  woman 
told  me  that,  I  wouldn't  believe  her." 

"  Montame  Zipod,  you  irritate  him ! "  cried  Schmucke, 
seeing  that  Pons  was  writhing  under  the  bedclothes. 

"  You  hold  your  tongue  too !  You  are  a  pair  of  old 
libertines.  If  you  were  ugly,  it  don't  make  no  difference; 
there  was  never  so  ugly  a  saucepan-lid  but  it  found  a  pot 
to  match,  as  the  saying  is.  There  is  Cibot,  he  got  one 
of  the  handsomest  oyster-women  in  Paris  to  fall  in  love  with 
him,  and  you  are  infinitely  better  looking  than  him !  You 
are  a  nice  pair,  you  are !  Come,  now,  you  have  sown  your 
wild  oats,  and  God  will  punish  you  for  deserting  your  children, 
like  Abraham " 

Exhausted  though  he  was,  the  invalid  gathered  up  all 
his  strength  to  make  a  vehement  gesture  of  denial. 

"  Do  lie  quiet ;  if  you  have,  it  won't  prevent  you  from 
living  as  long  as  Methuselah." 

"  Then,  pray  let  me  be  quiet !  "  groaned  Pons.  "  I  have 
never  known  what  it  is  to  be  loved.  I  have  had  no  child; 
I  am  alone  in  the  earth." 

"  Really,  eh.?  "  returned  the  portress.  "  You  are  so  kind, 
and  that  is  what  women  like,  you  see — it  draws  them — and 
it  looked  to  me  impossible  that  when  you  were  in  your 
prime " 

"  Take  her  away,"  Pons  whispered  to  Schmucke ;  "  she  sets 
my  nerves  on  edge." 

"  Then  there's  M.  Schmucke,  he  has  children.  You  old 
bachelors  are  not  all  like  that " 

"  /.'  "  cried  Schmucke,  springing  to  his  feet,  "  vy ! " 

"  Come,  then,  you  have  none  to  come  after  you  either, 
eh.''  You  both  sprang  up  out  of  the  earth  like  mush- 
rooms  " 


COUSIN  PONS  10? 

"  Look  here,  komm  mit  me,"  said  Schmucke.  The  good 
German  manfully  took  Mme.  Cibot  by  the  waist  and  carried 
her  off  into  the  next  room,  in  spite  of  her  exclamations. 

"  At  your  age,  you  would  not  take  advantage  of  a 
defenseless  woman ! "  cried  La  Cibot,  struggling  in  his 
arms. 

"  Don't  make  a  noise !  " 

"  You  too,  the  better  one  of  the  two !  "  returned  La  Cibot^ 
"  Ah !  it  is  my  fault  for  talking  about  love  to  two  old  men 
who  have  never  had  nothing  to  do  with  women.  I  have 
roused  your  passions,"  cried  she,  as  Schmucke's  eyes  glittered 
with  wrath.     "  Help !  help !  police !  " 

"  You  are  a  stoopid !  "  said  the  German.  "  Look  here,  vat 
tid  de  toctor  say?  " 

"  You  are  a  ruffian  to  treat  me  so,"  wept  La  Cibot,  now 
released, — "  me,  that  would  go  through  fire  and  water  for 
you  both !  Ah !  well,  well,  they  say  that  that  is  the  way 
with  men — and  true  it  is !  There  is  my  poor  Cibot,  he  would 
not  be  rough  with  me  like  this.  .  .  .  And  I  treated  you 
like  my  children,  for  I  have  none  of  my  own ;  and  yesterday, 
yes,  only  yesterday  I  said  to  Cibot,  '  God  knew  well  what  He 
was  doing,  dear,'  I  said,  '  when  He  refused  us  children,  for 
I  have  two  children  there  upstairs.'  By  the  holy  crucifix 
and  the  soul  of  my  mother,  that  was  what  I  said  to 
him " 

"  Eh !  but  vat  did  der  doctor  say  ?  "  Schmucke  demanded 
furiously,  stamping  on  the  floor  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life. 

"  Well,"  said  Mme.  Cibot,  drawing  Schmucke  into  the 
dining-room,  "  he  just  said  this — that  our  dear,  darling  love 
lying  ill  there  would  die  if  he  wasn't  carefully  nursed;  but 
I  am  here  in  spite  of  all  your  brutality,  for  brutal  you  were, 
you  that  I  thought  so  gentle.  And  you  are  one  of  that 
sort !  Ah,  now,  you  would  not  abuse  a  woman  at  your  age, 
great  blackguard " 

"Placard.'*  I.?  Vill  you  not  oonderstand  that  I  lof  no- 
pody  but  Bons .?  " 

"  Well  and  good,  you  will  let  me  alone,  won't  you?  "  said 
ehe,  smiling  at  Schmucke.     "  You  had  better ;  for  if  Cibot 


110  COUSIN  PONS 

knew  that  anybody  had  attempted  his  honor,  he  would  breaK 
every  bone  in  his  skin." 

"  Take  crate  care  of  him,  dear  Montame  Zipod,"  answered 
Schmucke,  and  he  tried  to  take  the  portress's  hand. 

"  Oh!  look  here  now,  again" 

"  Chust  listen  to  me.  You  shall  haf  all  dot  I  haf ,  gif 
ve  safe  him." 

"  Very  well ;  I  will  go  round  to  the  chemist's  to  get  the 
things  that  are  wanted;  this  illness  is  going  to  cost  a  lot, 
you  see,  sir,  and  what  will  you  do.^^  " 

"  I  shall  vork ;  Bons  shall  be  nursed  like  ein  brince." 

"  So  he  shall,  M.  Schmucke ;  and  look  here,  don't  you 
trouble  about  nothing.  Cibot  and  I,  between  us,  have  saved 
a  couple  of  thousand  francs ;  they  are  yours ;  I  have  been 
spending  money  on  you  this  long  time,  I  have." 

"  Goot  voman ! "  cried  Schmucke,  brushing  the  tears  from 
his  eyes.     "  Vat  ein  heart !  " 

"  W^ipe  your  tears ;  they  do  me  honor ;  this  is  my  reward," 
said  La  Cibot  melodramatically.  "  There  isn't  no  more  disin- 
terested creature  on  earth  than  me ;  but  don't  you  go  into 
the  room  with  tears  in  your  eyes,  or  M.  Pons  will  be  thinking 
himself  worse  than  he  is." 

Schmucke  was  touched  by  this  delicate  feeling.  He  took 
La  Cibot's  hand  and  gave  it  a  final  squeeze. 

"  Spare  me ! "  cried  the  ex-oysterseller,  leering  at 
Schmucke. 

"  Bons,"  the  good  German  said  when  he  returned,  "  Mon- 
tame Zipod  is  an  anchel;  'tis  an  anchel  dat  brattles,  but  an 
anchel  all  der  same." 

"  Do  you  think  so.^*  I  have  grown  suspicious  in  the  past 
month,"  said  the  invalid,  shaking  his  head.  "  After  all  I 
have  been  through,  one  comes  to  believe  in  nothing  but  God 
and  my  friend " 

"  Get  bedder,  and  ve  vill  lif  like  kings,  all  tree  of  us," 
exclaimed  Schmucke. 

"  Cibot ! "  panted  the  portress  as  she  entered  the  lodge. 
"  Oh,  my  dear,  our  fortune  is  made.  My  two  gentlemen 
haven't  nobody  to  come  after  them,  no  natural  children, 


COUSIN  PONS  111 

no  nothing,  in  short!  Oh,  I  shall  go  round  to  Ma'am  Fon- 
taine's and  get  her  to  tell  me  mj  fortune  on  the  cards,  then 
we  shall  know  how  much  we  are  going  to  have " 

"  Wife,"  said  the  little  tailor,  "  it's  ill  counting  on  dead 
men's  shoes." 

"Oh,  I  saj,  are  you  going  to  worry  me?"  asked  she, 
giving  her  spouse  a  playful  tap.  "  I  know  what  I  know  I 
Dr.  Poulain  has  given  up  M.  Pons.  And  we  are  going  to 
be  rich!  My  name  will  be  down  in  the  will.  .  .  .  I'll 
see  to  that.  Draw  your  needle  in  and  out,  and  look  after 
the  lodge;  you  will  not  do  it  for  long  now.  We  will  retire, 
and  go  into  the  country,  out  at  Batignolles.  A  nice  house 
and  a  fine  garden ;  you  will  amuse  yourself  with  gardening, 
and  I  shall  keep  a  servant !  " 

"  Well,  neighbor,  and  how  are  things  going  on  upstairs  ?  " 
The  words  were  spoken  with  the  thick  Auvergnat  accent,  and 
Remonencq  put  his  head  in  at  the  door.  "  Do  you  know 
what  the  collection  is  worth?  " 

"  No,  no,  not  yet.  One  can't  go  at  that  rate,  my  good 
man.  I  have  begun,  myself,  by  finding  out  more  important 
things " 

"More  important!"  exclaimed  Remonencq;  "why,  what 
things  can  be  more  important?  " 

"  Come,  let  me  do  the  steering,  ragamuffin,"  said  La  Cibot 
authoritatively. 

"  But  thirty  per  cent,  on  seven  hundred  thousand  francs," 
persisted  the  dealer  in  old  iron ;  "  you  could  be  your  own 
mistress  for  the  rest  of  your  days  on  that." 

"  Be  easy.  Daddy  Remonencq ;  when  we  want  to  know  the 
value  of  the  things  that  the  old  man  has  got  together,  then 
we  will  see." 

La  Cibot  went  for  the  medicine  ordered  by  Dr.  Poulain, 
and  put  off  her  consultation  with  Mme.  Fontaine  until  the 
morrow ;  the  oracle's  faculties  would  be  fresher  and  clearer  in 
the  morning,  she  thought ;  and  she  would  go  early,  before 
everybody  else  came,  for  there  was  often  a  crowd  at  Mme. 
Fontaine's. 

Mme.  Fontaine  was  at  this  time  the  oracle  of  the  Marais ; 
she  had  survived  the  rival  of  forty  years,  the  celebrated 


112  COUSIN  PONS 

Mile.  Lenormand.  No  one  imagines  the  part  that  fortune- 
tellers play  among  Parisians  of  the  lower  classes,  nor  the 
immense  influence  which  thej  exert  over  the  uneducated; 
general  servants,  portresses,  kept  women,  workmen,  all  the 
many  in  Paris  who  live  on  hope,  consult  the  privileged  beings 
who  possess  the  mysterious  power  of  reading  the  future. 

The  belief  in  occult  science  is  far  more  widely  spread  than 
scholars,  lawyers,  doctors,  magistrates,  and  philosophers 
imagine.  The  instincts  of  the  people  are  ineradicable.  One 
among  those  instincts,  so  foolishly  styled  "  superstition," 
runs  in  the  blood  of  the  populace,  and  tinges  no  less  the 
intellects  of  better  educated  folk.  More  than  one  French 
statesman  has  been  known  to  consult  the  fortune-teller's  cards. 
For  skeptical  minds,  astrology,  in  French  so  oddly  termed 
astrologie  judiciaire,  is  nothing  more  than  a  cunning  device 
for  making  a  profit  out  of  one  of  the  strongest  of  all  the 
instincts  of  human  nature — to  wit,  curiosity.  The  skeptical 
mind  consequently  denies  that  there  is  any  connection  between 
human  destiny  and  the  prognostications  obtained  by  the  seven 
or  eight  principal  methods  known  to  astrology ;  and  the 
occult  sciences,  like  many  natural  phenomena,  are  passed 
over  by  the  freethinker  or  the  materialist  philosopher,  id  est, 
by  those  who  believe  in  nothing  but  visible  and  tangible  facts, 
in  the  results  given  by  the  chemist's  retort  and  the  scales  of 
modern  physical  science.  The  occult  sciences  still  exist ;  they 
are  at  work,  but  they  make  no  progress,  for  the  greatest 
intellects  of  two  centuries  have  abandoned  the  field. 

If  you  only  look  at  the  practical  side  of  divination,  it 
seems  absurd  to  imagine  that  events  in  a  man's  past  life  and 
secrets  known  only  to  himself  can  be  represented  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  by  a  pack  of  cards  which  he  shuffles 
and  cuts  for  the  fortune-teller  to  lay  out  in  piles  according 
to  certain  mysterious  rules;  but  then  the  steam-engine  was 
condemned  as  absurd,  aerial  navigation  is  still  said  to  be 
absurd;  so  in  their  time  were  the  inventions  of  gunpowder, 
printing,  spectacles,  engraving,  and  that  latest  great  dis- 
covery of  all — the  daguerreotype.  If  any  man  had  come 
to  Napoleon  to  tell  him  that  a  building  or  a  figure  is  at  all 
times  and  in  all  places  represented  by  an  image  in  the  atmos- 


COUSIN  PONS  113 

phere,  that  every  existing  object  has  a  spectral  intangible 
double  which  may  become  visible,  the  Emperor  would  have 
sent  his  informant  to  Charenton  for  a  lunatic,  just  as 
RicheHeu  before  his  day  sent  that  Norman  martyr  Salomon 
de  Caux  to  the  Bicetre  for  announcing  his  immense  triumph, 
the  idea  of  navigation  by  steam.  Yet  Daguerre's  discovery 
amounts  to  nothing  more  nor  less  than  this. 

And  if  for  some  clairvoyant  eyes  God  has  written  each 
man's  destiny  over  his  whole  outward  and  visible  form,  if 
a  man's  body  is  the  record  of  his  fate,  why  should  not  the 
hand  in  a  manner  epitomize  the  body.''  Since  the  hand  rep- 
resents the  deed  of  man,  and  by  his  deeds  he  is  known. 

Herein  lies  the  theory  of  palmistry.  Does  not  Society 
imitate  God?  At  the  sight  of  a  soldier  we  can  predict  that 
he  will  fight ;  of  a  lawyer,  that  he  will  talk ;  of  a  shoemaker, 
that  he  shall  make  shoes  or  boots ;  of  a  worker  of  the  soil, 
that  he  shall  dig  the  ground  and  dung  it;  and  is  it  a  more 
wonderful  thing  that  such  an  one  with  the  "  seer's  "  gift 
should  foretell  the  events  of  a  man's  life  from  his  hand.'' 

To  take  a  striking  example.  Genius  is  so  visible  in  a 
man  that  a  great  artist  cannot  walk  about  the  streets  of 
Paris  but  the  most  ignorant  people  are  conscious  of  his  pass- 
ing. He  is  a  sun,  as  it  were,  in  the  mental  world,  shedding 
light  that  colors  everything  in  his  path.  And  who  does  not 
know  an  idiot  at  once  by  an  impression  the  exact  opposite 
of  the  sensation  of  the  presence  of  genius.  Most  observers 
of  human  nature  in  general,  and  Parisian  nature  in  par- 
ticular, can  guess  the  profession  or  calling  of  the  man  in  the 
street. 

The  mysteries  of  the  witches'  Sabbath,  so  wonderfully 
painted  in  the  sixteenth  century,  are  no  mysteries  for  us. 
The  Egyptian  ancestors  of  that  mysterious  people  of  Indian 
origin,  the  gypsies  of  the  present  day,  simply  used  to  drug 
their  clients  with  hasheesh,  a  practice  that  fully  accounts 
for  broomstick  rides  and  flights  up  the  chimney,  the  real- 
seeming  visions,  so  to  speak,  of  old  crones  transformed  into 
young  damsels,  the  frantic  dances,  the  exquisite  music,  and 
all  the  fantastic  tales  of  devil-worship. 

So  many  proven  facts  have  been  first  discovered  by  occult 


114  COUSIN  PONS 

science,  that  some  day  we  shall  have  professors  of  occult 
science,  as  we  already  have  professors  of  chemistry  and 
astronomy.  It  is  even  singular  that  here  in  Paris,  where  we 
are  founding  chairs  of  Mantchu  and  Slav  and  literatures 
so  little  professable  (to  coin  a  word)  as  the  literatures  of 
the  North  (which  so  far  from  providing  lessons  stand  very 
badly  in  need  of  them)  ;  when  the  curriculum  is  full  of  the 
everlasting  lectures  on  Shakespeare  and  the  sixteenth  century, 
— it  is  strange  that  someone  has  not  restored  the  teaching 
of  the  occult  philosophies,  once  the  glory  of  the  University 
of  Paris,  under  the  title  of  anthropology.  Germany,  so 
child-like  and  so  great,  has  outstripped  France  in  this  par- 
ticular; in  Germany  they  have  professors  of  a  science  of 
far  more  use  than  a  knowledge  of  the  heterogeneous  philoso- 
phies, which  all  come  to  the  same  thing  at  bottom. 

Once  admit  that  certain  beings  have  the  power  of  dis- 
cerning the  future  in  its  germ-form  of  the  Cause,  as  the  great 
inventor  sees  a  glimpse  of  the  industry  latent  in  his  inven- 
tion, or  a  science  in  something  that  happens  every  day 
unnoticed  by  ordinary  eyes — once  allow  this,  and  there  is 
nothing  to  cause  an  outcry  in  such  phenomena,  no  violent 
exception  to  nature's  laws,  but  the  operation  of  a  recognized 
faculty ;  possibly  a  kind  of  mental  somnambulism,  as  it  were. 
If,  therefore,  the  hypothesis  upon  which  the  various  ways 
of  divining  the  future  are  based  seems  absurd,  the  facts 
remain.  Remark  that  it  is  not  really  more  wonderful  that 
the  seer  should  foretell  the  chief  events  of  the  future  than 
that  he  should  read  the  past.  Past  and  future,  on  the 
skeptic's  system,  equally  lie  beyond  the  limits  of  knowledge. 
If  the  past  has  left  traces  behind  it,  it  is  not  improbable 
that  future  events  have,  as  it  were,  their  roots  in  the  present. 

If  a  fortune-teller  gives  you  minute  details  of  past  facts 
known  only  to  yourself,  why  should  he  not  foresee  the 
events  to  be  produced  by  existing  causes?  The  world  of 
ideas  is  cut  out,  so  to  speak,  on  the  pattern  of  the  physical 
world;  the  same  phenomena  should  be  discernible  in  both, 
allowing  for  the  difference  of  the  medium.  As,  for  instance, 
a  corporeal  body  actually  projects  an  image  upon  the 
atmosphere — a  spectral  double  detected  and  recorded  by  the 


COUSIN  PONS  115 

daguerreotype;  so  also  ideas,  having  a  real  and  effective 
existence,  leave  an  impression,  as  it  were,  upon  the  atmosphere 
of  the  spiritual  world;  they  likewise  produce  effects,  and 
exist  spectrally  (to  coin  a  word  to  express  phenomena  for 
which  no  words  exist),  and  certain  human  beings  are  en- 
dowed with  the  faculty  of  discerning  these  "  forms "  or 
traces  of  ideas. 

As  for  the  material  means  employed  to  assist  the  seer — 
the  objects  arranged  by  the  hands  of  the  consultant  that 
the  accidents  of  his  life  may  be  revealed  to  him — this  is  the 
least  inexplicable  part  of  the  process.  Everything  in  the 
material  world  is  part  of  a  series  of  causes  and  effects. 
Nothing  happens  without  a  cause,  every  cause  is  a  part  of 
a  whole,  and  consequently  the  whole  leaves  its  impression 
on  the  slightest  accident.  Rabelais,  the  greatest  mind  among 
moderns,  resuming  Pythagoras,  Hippocrates,  Aristophanes, 
and  Dante,  pronounced  three  centuries  ago  that  "  man  is  a 
microcosm  " — a  little  world.  Three  hundred  years  later,  the 
great  seer  Swedenborg  declared  that  "  the  world  was  a 
man."  The  prophet  and  the  precursor  of  incredulity  meet 
thus  in  the  greatest  of  all  formulas. 

Everything  in  human  life  is  predestined,  so  is  it  also  with 
the  existence  of  the  planet.  The  least  event,  the  most  futile 
phenomena,  are  all  subordinate  parts  of  a  scheme.  Great 
things,  therefore,  great  designs,  and  great  thoughts  are  of 
necessity  reflected  in  the  smallest  actions,  and  that  so  faith- 
fully, that  should  a  conspirator  shuffle  and  cut  a  pack  of 
playing-cards,  he  will  write  the  history  of  his  plot  for  the 
eyes  of  the  seer  styled  gypsy,  fortune-teller,  charlatan,  or 
what  not.  If  you  once  admit  fate,  which  is  to  say,  the  chain 
of  links  of  cause  and  effect,  astrology  has  a  locus  standi, 
and  becomes  what  it  was  of  yore,  a  boundless  science,  requir- 
ing the  same  faculty  of  deduction  by  which  Cuvier  became 
so  great,  a  faculty  to  be  exercised  spontaneously,  however, 
and  not  merely  in  nights  of  study  in  the  closet. 

For  seven  centuries  astrology  and  divination  have  exercised 
an  influence  not  only  (as  at  present)  over  the  uneducated, 
but  over  the  greatest  minds,  over  kings  and  queens  and 
wealthy  people.    Animal  magnetism,  one  of  the  great  sciences 


116  COUSIN  PONS 

of  antiquity,  had  its  origin  in  occult  philosophy;  chemistry 
is  the  outcome  of  alchemy ;  phrenology  and  neurology  are  no 
less  the  fruit  of  similar  studies.  The  first  illustrious  workers 
in  these,  to  all  appearance,  untouched  fields,  made  one  mis- 
take, the  mistake  of  all  inventors ;  that  is  to  say,  they  erected 
an  absolute  system  on  a  basis  of  isolated  facts  for  which 
modern  analysis  as  yet  carnot  account.  The  Catholic 
Church,  the  law  of  the  land,  and  modern  philosophy,  in  agree- 
ment for  once,  combined  to  proscribe,  persecute,  and  ridicule 
the  mysteries  of  the  Cabala  as  well  as  the  adepts ;  the  result 
is  a  lamentable  interregnum  of  a  century  in  occult  philosophy. 
But  the  uneducated  classes,  and  not  a  few  cultivated  people 
(women  especially),  continue  to  pay  a  tribute  to  the  mys- 
terious power  of  those  who  can  raise  the  veil  of  the  future; 
they  go  to  buy  hope,  strength,  and  courage  of  the  fortune- 
teller ;  in  other  words,  to  ask  of  him  all  that  religion  alone  can 
give.  So  the  art  is  still  practiced  in  spite  of  a  certain 
amount  of  risk.  The  eighteenth  century  encyclopaedists  pro- 
cured tolerance  for  the  sorcerer,  he  is  no  longer  amenable 
to  a  court  of  law,  unless  indeed  he  lends  himself  to  fraudulent 
practices,  and  frightens  his  "  clients  "  to  extort  money  from 
them,  in  which  case  he  may  be  prosecuted  on  a  charge  of 
obtaining  money  under  false  pretenses.  Unluckily,  the  exer- 
cise of  the  sublime  art  is  only  too  often  used  as  a  method 
of  obtaining  money  under  false  pretenses,  and  for  the  follow- 
ing reasons. 

The  seer's  wonderful  gifts  are  usually  bestowed  upon  those 
who  are  described  by  the  epithets  rough  and  uneducated. 
The  rough  and  uneducated  are  the  chosen  vessels  into  which 
God  pours  the  elixirs  at  which  we  marvel.  From  among  the 
rough  and  uneducated,  prophets  arise — an  Apostle  Peter,  or 
St.  Peter  the  Hermit.  Wherever  mental  power  is  imprisoned, 
and  remains  intact  and  entire  for  want  of  an  outlet  in  conver- 
sation, in  politics,  in  literature,  in  the  imaginings  of  the 
scholar,  in  the  efforts  of  the  statesman,  in  the  conceptions 
of  the  inventor,  or  the  soldier's  toils  of  war ;  the  fire  within 
is  apt  to  flash  out  in  gleams  of  marvelous!}'  vivid  light,  like 
the  sparks  hidden  in  an  unpolished  diamond.  Let  the  occa- 
sion  come,   and   the   spirit   within   kindles    and   glows,   finds 


COUSIN  PONS  117 

wings  to  traverse  space,  and  the  god-like  power  of  beholding 
all  things.  The  coal  of  yesterday  under  the  play  of  some 
mysterious  influence  becomes  a  radiant  diamond.  Better  edu- 
cated people,  many-sided  and  highly  polished,  continually 
giving  out  all  that  is  in  them,  can  never  exhibit  this  supreme 
power,  save  by  one  of  the  miracles  which  God  sometimes 
vouchsafes  to  work.  For  this  reason  the  soothsayer  is  almost 
always  a  beggar,  whose  mind  is  virgin  soil,  a  creature  coarse 
to  all  appearance,  a  pebble  borne  along  the  torrent  of  misery 
and  left  in  the  ruts  of  life,  where  it  spends  nothing  of  itself 
save  in  mere  physical  suffering. 

The  prophet,  the  seer,  in  short,  is  some  Martin  le  La- 
houreur  making  a  Louis  XVIII.  tremble  by  telling  him  a 
secret  known  only  to  the  King  himself;  or  it  is  a  Mile. 
Lenormand,  or  a  domestic  servant  like  Mme.  Fontaine,  or 
again,  perhaps  it  is  some  half-idiotic  negress,  some  herdsman 
living  among  his  cattle,  who  receives  the  gift  of  vision ; 
some  Hindoo  fakir,  seated  by  a  pagoda,  mortifying  the  flesh 
till  the  spirit  gains  the  mysterious  power  of  the  somnambulist. 

Asia,  indeed,  through  all  time,  has  been  the  home  of  the 
heroes  of  occult  science.  Persons  of  this  kind,  recovering 
their  normal  state,  are  usually  just  as  they  were  before. 
They  fulfill,  in  some  sort,  the  chemical  and  physical  functions 
of  bodies  which  conduct  electricity ;  at  times  inert  metal,  at 
other  times  a  channel  filled  with  a  mysterious  current.  In 
their  normal  condition  they  are  given  to  practices  which 
bring  them  before  the  magistrate,  yea,  verily,  like  the  notori- 
ous Balthazar,  even  unto  the  criminal  court,  and  so  to  the 
hulks.  You  could  hardly  find  a  better  proof  of  the  immense 
influence  of  fortune-telling  upon  the  working  classes  than  the 
fact  that  poor  Pons's  life  and  death  hung  upon  the  predic- 
tion that  Mme.  Fontaine  was  to  make  from  the  cards. 

Although  a  certain  amount  of  repetition  is  inevitable  in 
a  canvas  so  considerable  and  so  full  of  detail  as  a  complete 
picture  of  French  society  in  the  nineteenth  century,  it  is 
needless  to  repeat  the  description  of  Mme.  Fontaine's  den, 
already  given  in  Les  Comediens  sans  le  S avoir;  suffice  it  to 
say  that  Mme.  Cibot  used  to  go  to  Mme.  Fontaine's  house 
in  the  Rue  Vieille-du-Temple  as  regularly  as  frequenters  of 


118  COUSIN  PONS 

the  Cafe  Anglais  drop  in  at  that  restaurant  for  lunch. 
Mme.  Cibot,  being  a  very  old  customer,  often  introduced 
young  persons  and  old  gossips  consumed  with  curiosity  to  the 
wise  woman. 

The  old  servant  who  acted  as  provost  marshal  flung  open 
the  door  of  the  sanctuary  with  no  further  ceremony  than 
the  remark,  "  It's  Mme.  Cibot. — Come  in,  there's  nobody 
here." 

"  Well,  child,  what  can  bring  you  here  so  early  of  a  morn- 
ing? "  asked  the  sorceress,  as  Mme.  Fontaine  might  well  be 
called,  for  she  was  seventy-eight  years  old,  and  looked  like 
one  of  the  Parc«e. 

"  Something  has  given  me  a  turn,"  said  La  Cibot ;  "  I 
want  the  grand  jeu;  it  is  a  question  of  my  fortune."  There- 
with she  explained  her  position,  and  wished  to  know  if  her 
sordid  hopes  were  likely  to  be  realized. 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  grand  jeu  means  ?  "  asked  Mme. 
Fontaine,  with  much  solemnity. 

"  No.  I  haven't  never  seen  the  trick,  I  am  not  rich 
enough. — A  hundred  francs.  It's  not  as  if  it  cost  so  much! 
Where  was  the  money  to  come  from.''  But  now  I  can't 
help  myself,  I  must  have  it." 

"  I  don't  do  it  often,  child,"  returned  Mme.  Fontaine ; 
"  I  only  do  it  for  rich  people  on  great  occasions,  and  they 
pay  me  twenty-five  louis  for  doing  it ;  it  tires  me,  you  see, 
it  wears  me  out.  The  '  Spirit '  rives  my  inside,  here.  It  is 
like  going  to  the  '  Sabbath,'  as  they  used  to  say." 

"  But  when  I  tell  you  that  it  means  my  whole  future,  my 
dear  good  Ma'am  Fontaine " 

"  Well,  as  it  is  you  that  have  come  to  consult  me  so  often, 
I  will  submit  myself  to  the  Spirit !  "  replied  Mme.  Fontaine, 
with  a  look  of  genuine  terror  on  her  face. 

She  rose  from  her  filthy  old  chair  by  the  fireside,  and  went 
to  a  table  covered  with  a  green  cloth  so  worn  that  you  could 
count  the  threads.  A  huge  toad  sat  dozing  there  beside 
a  cage,  inhabited  by  a  black  disheveled-looking  fowl. 

"  Astaroth !  here,  my  son !  "  she  said,  and  the  creature 
looked  up  intelligently  at  her  as  she  rapped  him  on  the  back 
with  a  long  knitting-needle. — "  And  you.  Mile.   Cleopatre ! 


COUSIN  PONS  119 

— attention !  "  she  continued,  tapping  the  ancient  fowl  on  the 
beak. 

Then  Mme.  Fontaine  began  to  think;  for  several  seconds 
she  did  not  move ;  she  looked  like  a  corpse,  her  eyes  rolled 
in  their  sockets  and  grew  white ;  then  she  rose  stiff  and  erect, 
and  a  cavernous  voice  cried — 

"  Here  I  am !  " 

Automatically  she  scattered  millet  for  Cleopatre,  took 
up  the  pack  of  cards,  shuffled  them  convulsively,  and  held 
them  out  to  Mme.  Cibot  to  cut,  sighing  heavily  all  the  time. 
At  the  sight  of  that  image  of  Death  in  the  filthy  turban 
and  uncanny  looking  bed-jacket,  watching  the  black  fowl 
as  it  pecked  at  the  millet-grains,  calling  to  the  toad  Astaroth 
to  walk  over  the  cards  that  lay  out  on  the  table,  a  cold  thrill 
ran  through  Mme.  Cibot ;  she  shuddered.  Nothing  but 
strong  belief  can  give  strong  emotions.  An  assured  income, 
to  be  or  not  to  be,  that  was  the  question. 

The  sorceress  opened  a  magical  work  and  muttered  some 
unintelligible  words  in  a  sepulchral  voice,  looked  at  the 
remaining  millet-seeds,  and  watched  the  way  in  which  the 
toad  retired.  Then  after  seven  or  eight  minutes,  she  turned 
her  white  eyes  on  the  cards  and  expounded  them. 

"  You  will  succeed,  although  nothing  in  the  affair  will 
fall  out  as  you  expect.  You  will  have  many  steps  to  take, 
but  you  will  reap  the  fruits  of  your  labors.  You  will 
behave  very  badly ;  it  will  be  with  you  as  it  is  with  all  those 
who  sit  by  a  sick-bed  and  covet  part  of  the  inheritance. 
Great  people  will  help  you  in  this  work  of  wrongdoing. 
Afterwards  in  the  death  agony  you  will  repent.  Two  escaped 
convicts,  a  short  man  with  red  hair  and  an  old  man  with 
a  bald  head,  will  murder  you  for  the  sake  of  the  money  you 
will  be  supposed  to  have  in  the  village  whither  you  will 
retire  with  your  second  husband.  Now,  my  daughter,  it  is 
still  open  to  you  to  choose  your  course." 

The  excitement  which  seemed  to  glow  within,  lighting  up 
the  bony  hollows  about  the  eyes,  was  suddenly  extinguished. 
As  soon  as  the  horoscope  was  pronounced,  Mme.  Fontaine's 
face  wore  a  dazed  expression ;  she  looked  exactly  like  a 
sleep-walker  aroused  from  sleep,  gazed  about  her  with  an 


120  COUSIN  PONS 

astonished  air,  recognized  Mme.  Cibot,  and  seemed  surprised 
by  her  terrified  face. 

"  Well,  child,"  she  said,  in  a  totally  different  voice,  "  are 
you  satisfied?  " 

Mme.  Cibot  stared  stupidly  at  the  sorceress,  and  could 
not  answer. 

"Ah!  you  would  have  the  grand  jeu;  I  have  treated 
you  as  an  old  acquaintance.  I  only  want  a  hundred 
francs " 

"  Cibot, — going  to  die.''  "  gasped  the  portress. 

"  So  I  have  been  telling  you  very  dreadful  things,  have 
I?  "  asked  Mme.  Fontaine,  with  an  extremely  ingenuous  air. 

*'  Why,  yes ! "  said  La  Cibot,  taking  a  hundred  francs 
from  her  pocket  and  laying  them  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
table.     "  Going  to  be  murdered,  think  of  it " 

"  Ah !  there  it  is !  You  would  have  the  grand  jeu;  but 
don't  take  on  so,  all  the  folk  that  are  murdered  on  the  cards 
don't  die." 

"  But  is  it  possible.  Ma'am  Fontaine?  " 

"  Oh,  /  know  nothing  about  it,  my  pretty  dear !  You 
would  rap  at  the  door  of  the  future ;  I  pull  the  cord,  and  It 
came." 

"It,  what?"  asked  Mme.  Cibot. 

"  Well,  then,  the  Spirit ! "  cried  the  sorceress  impatiently. 

"  Good-by,  Ma'am  Fontaine,"  exclaimed  the  portress.  "  I 
did  not  know  what  the  grand  jeu  was  like.  You  have  given 
me  a  good  fright,  that  you  have." 

"  The  mistress  will  not  put  herself  in  that  state  twice  in 
a  month,"  said  the  servant,  as  she  went  with  La  Cibot  to  the 
landing.  "  She  would  do  herself  to  death  if  she  did,  it  tires 
her  so.  She  will  eat  cutlets  now  and  sleep  for  three  hours 
afterwards." 

Out  in  the  street,  La  Cibot  took  counsel  of  herself  as  she 
went  along,  and,  after  the  manner  of  all  who  ask  for  advice 
of  any  sort  or  description,  she  took  the  favorable  part  of  the 
prediction  and  rejected  the  rest.  The  next  day  found  her 
confirmed  in  her  resolutions — she  would  set  all  in  train  to 
become  rich  by  securing  a  part  of  Pons's  collection.  Nor  for 
some  time  had  she  any  other  thought  than  the  combination 


COUSIN  PONS  121 

of  various  plans  to  this  end.  The  faculty  of  self-concen- 
tration seen  in  rough,  uneducated  persons,  explained  on  a 
previous  page,  the  reserve  power  accumulated  in  those  whose 
mental  energies  are  unworn  by  the  daily  wear  and  tear  of 
social  life,  and  brought  into  action  so  soon  as  that  terrible 
weapon  the  "  fixed  idea  "  is  brought  into  play, — all  this 
was  pre-eminently  manifested  in  La  Cibot.  Even  as  the 
"  fixed  idea  "  works  miracles  of  evasion,  and  brings  forth 
prodigies  of  sentiment,  so  greed  transformed  the  portress 
till  she  became  as  formidable  as  a  Nucingen  at  bay,  as  subtle 
beneath  her  seeming  stupidity  as  the  irresistible  la  Palferine. 

About  seven  o'clock  one  morning,  a  few  days  afterwards, 
she  saw  Remonencq  taking  down  his  shutters.  She  went 
across  to  him. 

"  How  could  one  find  out  how  much  the  things  yonder  in 
my  gentlemen's  rooms  are  worth  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  wheedling 
tone. 

"  Oh !  that  is  quite  easy,"  replied  the  owner  of  the  old 
curiosity  shop.  "  If  you  will  play  fair  and  above  board 
with  me,  I  will  tell  you  of  somebody,  a  very  honest  man, 
who  will  know  the  value  of  the  pictures  to  a  farthing " 

"Who?" 

"  M.  Magus,  a  Jew.  He  only  does  business  to  amuse 
himself  now." 

Elie  Magus  has  appeared  so  often  in  the  Comedie  Humaine, 
that  it  is  needless  to  say  more  of  him  here.  Suffice  it  to 
add  that  he  had  retired  from  business,  and  as  a  dealer  was 
following  the  example  set  by  Pons  the  amateur.  Well- 
known  valuers  like  Henry,  Messrs.  Pigeot  and  Moret,  Theret, 
Georges,  and  Roehn,  the  experts  of  the  Musee  in  fact,  were 
but  children  compared  with  Elie  Magus.  He  could  see  a 
masterpiece  beneath  the  accumulated  grime  of  a  century; 
he  knew  all  schools,  and  the  handwriting  of  all  painters. 

He  had  come  to  Paris  from  Bordeaux,  and  so  long  ago 
as  1835  he  had  retired  from  business  without  making  any 
change  for  the  better  in  his  dress,  so  faithful  is  the  race  to 
old  tradition.  The  persecutions  of  the  Middle  Ages  com- 
pelled them  to  wear  rags,  to  snuffle  and  whine  and  groan 
over  their  poverty  in  self-defense,  till  the  habits  induced  by 


122  COUSIN  PONS 

the  necessities  of  other  times  have  come  to  be,  as  usual,  in- 
stinctive, a  racial  defect. 

Elie  Magus  had  amassed  a  vast  fortune  by  buying  and 
selHng  diamonds,  pictures,  lace,  enamels,  delicate  carvings, 
old  jewelry,  and  rarities  of  all  kinds,  a  kind  of  commerce 
which  has  developed  enormously  of  late,  so  much  so  indeed 
that  the  number  of  dealers  has  increased  tenfold  during  the 
last  twenty  years  in  this  city  of  Paris,  whither  all  the  curi- 
osities in  the  world  come  to  rub  against  one  another.  And 
for  pictures  there  are  but  three  marts  in  the  world — Rome, 
London,  and  Paris. 

Elie  Magus  lived  in  the  Chaussee  des  Minimes,  a  short, 
broad  street  leading  to  the  Place  Royale.  He  had  bought 
the  house,  an  old-fashioned  mansion,  for  a  song,  as  the  saying 
is,  in  1831.  Yet  there  were  sumptuous  apartments  within 
it,  decorated  in  the  time  of  Louis  XV. ;  for  it  had  once  been 
the  Hotel  Maulaincourt,  built  by  the  great  President  of  the 
Cour  des  Aides,  and  its  remote  position  had  saved  it  at 
the  time  of  the  Revolution. 

You  may  be  quite  sure  that  the  old  Jew  had  sound  reasons 
for  buying  house  property,  contrary  to  the  Hebrew  law  and 
custom.  He  had  ended,  as  most  of  us  end,  with  a  hobby 
that  bordered  on  a  craze.  He  was  as  miserly  as  his  friend 
the  late  lamented  Gobseck;  but  he  had  been  caught  by  the 
snare  of  the  eyes,  by  the  beauty  of  the  pictures  in  which 
he  dealt.  As  his  taste  grew  more  and  more  fastidious,  it 
became  one  of  the  passions  which  princes  alone  can  indulge 
when  they  are  wealthy  and  art-lovers.  As  the  second  King 
of  Prussia  found  nothing  that  so  kindled  enthusiasm  as  the 
spectacle  of  a  grenadier  over  six  feet  high,  and  gave  ex- 
travagant sums  for  a  new  specimen  to  add  to  his  living 
museum  of  a  regiment,  so  the  retired  picture-dealer  was 
roused  to  passion-pitch  only  by  some  canvas  in  perfect  preser- 
vation, untouched  since  the  master  laid  down  the  brush ;  and 
what  was  more,  it  must  be  a  picture  of  the  painter's  best 
time.  No  great  sales,  therefore,  took  place  but  Elie  Magus 
was  there ;  every  mart  knew  him,  he  traveled  all  over  Europe. 
The  ice-cold,  money-worshiping  soul  in  him  kindled  at  the 
sight  of  a  perfect  work  of  art,  precisely  as  a  libertine,  weary 


COUSIN  PONS  1231 

of  fair  women,  is  roused  from  apathy  by  the  sight  of  a 
beautiful  girl,  and  sets  out  afresh  upon  the  quest  of  flawless 
loveliness.  A  Don  Juan  among  fair  works  of  art,  a  wor- 
shiper of  the  Ideal,  Elie  Magus  had  discovered  joys  that 
transcend  the  pleasure  of  the  miser  gloating  over  his  gold — 
he  lived  in  a  seraglio  of  great  paintings. 

His  masterpieces  were  housed  as  became  the  children  of 
princes ;  the  whole  first  floor  of  the  great  old  mansion  was 
given  up  to  them.  The  rooms  had  been  restored  under  Elie 
Magus's  orders,  and  with  what  magnificence ! 

The  windows  were  hung  with  the  richest  Venetian  brocade ; 
the  most  splendid  carpets  from  the  Savonnerie  covered  the 
parquetry  flooring.  The  frames  of  the  pictures,  nearly  a 
hundred  in  number,  were  magnificent  specimens,  regilded  cun- 
ningly by  Servais,  the  one  gilder  in  Paris  whom  Elie  Magus 
thought  sufliciently  painstaking;  the  old  Jew  himself  had 
taught  him  to  use  tlie  English  leaf,  which  is  infinitely  superior 
to  that  produced  by  French  gold-beaters.  Servais  is  among 
gilders  as  Thouvenin  among  bookbinders — an  artist  among 
craftsmen,  making  his  work  a  labor  of  love.  Every  window 
in  that  gallery  was  protected  by  iron-barred  shutters.  Elie 
Magus  himself  lived  in  a  couple  of  attics  on  the  floor  above ; 
the  furniture  was  wretched,  the  rooms  were  full  of  rags,  and 
the  whole  place  smacked  of  the  Ghetto ;  Elie  Magus  was 
finishing  his  daj's  without  any  change  in  liis  life. 

The  whole  of  the  ground  floor  was  given  up  to  the  picture 
trade  (for  the  Jew  still  dealt  in  works  of  art).  Here  he 
stored  his  canvases,  here  also  packing-cases  were  stowed  on 
their  arrival  from  other  countries ;  and  still  there  was  room 
for  a  vast  studio,  where  Moret,  most  skillful  of  restorers  of 
pictures,  a  craftsman  whom  the  Musee  ought  to  employ,  was 
almost  always  at  work  for  Magus.  The  rest  of  the  rooms 
on  the  ground  floor  were  given  up  to  ^lagus's  daughter,  the 
child  of  his  old  age,  a  Jewess  beautiful  as  a  Jewess  can  be 
when  the  Semitic  type  reappears  in  its  purity  and  nobility 
in  a  daughter  of  Israel.  Noemi  was  guarded  by  two  serv- 
ants, fanatical  Jewesses,  to  say  nothing  of  an  advanced- 
guard,  a  Polish  Jew,  Abramko  by  name,  once  involved  in 
a    fabulous   manner   in   political   troubles,    from   which   Elie 


lU  COUSIN  PONS 

Magus  saved  him  as  a  business  speculation.  Abramko,  porter 
of  the  silent,  grim,  deserted  mansion,  divided  his  office  and 
his  lodge  with  three  remarkably  ferocious  animals — an  Eng- 
lish bulldog,  a  Newfoundland  dog,  and  another  of  the  Pyre- 
nean  breed. 

Behold  the  profound  observations  of  human  nature  upon 
which  Elie  Magus  based  his  feeling  of  security,  for  secure 
he  felt ;  he  left  home  without  misgivings,  slept  with  both  ears 
shut,  and  feared  no  attempt  upon  his  daughter  (his  chief 
treasure),  his  pictures,  nor  his  money.  In  the  first  place, 
Abramko's  salary  was  increased  every  year  by  two  hundred 
francs  so  long  as  his  master  should  live ;  and  Magus,  more- 
over, was  training  Abramko  as  a  money-lender  in  a  small  way. 
Abramko  never  admitted  anybody  until  he  had  surveyed  them 
through  a  formidable  grated  opening.  He  was  a  Hercules 
for  strength,  he  worshiped  Elie  Magus,  as  Sancho  Panza  wor- 
shiped Don  Quixote.  All  day  long  the  dogs  were  shut  up 
without  food ;  at  nightfall  Abramko  let  them  loose ;  and 
by  a  cunning  device  the  old  Jew  kept  each  animal  at  his  post 
in  the  courtyard  or  the  garden  by  hanging  a  piece  of  meat 
just  out  of  reach  on  the  top  of  a  pole.  The  animals  guarded 
the  house,  and  sheer  hunger  guarded  the  dogs.  No  odor 
that  reached  their  nostrils  could  tempt  them  from  the  neigh- 
borhood of  that  piece  of  meat ;  they  would  not  have  left  their 
places  at  the  foot  of  the  poles  for  the  most  engaging  female 
of  the  canine  species.  If  a  stranger  by  any  chance  intruded, 
the  dogs  suspected  him  of  ulterior  designs  upon  their  rations, 
which  were  only  taken  down  in  the  morning  by  Abramko 
himself  when  he  awoke.  The  advantages  of  this  fiendish 
scheme  are  patent.  The  animals  never  barked,  Magus's 
ingenuity  had  made  savages  of  them ;  they  were  treacherous 
as  Mohicans.     And  now  for  the  result. 

One  night  burglars,  emboldened  by  the  silence,  decided 
too  hastily  that  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  "  clean  out " 
the  old  Jew's  strong  box.  One  of  their  number  told  off 
to  advance  to  the  assault  scrambled  up  the  garden  wall  and 
prepared  to  descend.  This  the  bulldog  allowed  him  to  do. 
The  animal,  knowing  perfectly  well  what  was  coming,  waited 
for  the  burglar  to  reach  the  ground;  but  when  that  gentle- 


COUSIN  PONS  125 

man  directed  a  kick  at  him,  the  bulldog  flew  at  the  visitor's 
shins,  and,  making  but  one  bite  of  it,  snapped  the  ankle- 
bone  clean  in  two.  The  thief  had  the  courage  to  tear  himself 
away,  and  returned,  walking  upon  the  bare  bone  of  the 
mutilated  stump  till  he  reached  the  rest  of  the  gang,  when 
he  fell  fainting,  and  they  carried  him  off.  The  Police  News, 
of  course,  did  not  fail  to  report  this  delightful  night  incident, 
but  no  one  believed  in  it. 

Magus  at  this  time  was  seventy-five  years  old,  and  there 
was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  live  to  a  hundred.  Rich 
man  though  he  was,  he  lived  like  the  Remonencqs.  His 
necessary  expenses,  including  the  money  he  lavished  on 
his  daughter,  did  not  exceed  three  thousand  francs.  No 
life  could  be  more  regular;  the  old  man  rose  as  soon  as  it 
was  light,  breakfasted  on  bread  rubbed  with  a  clove  of  garhc, 
and  ate  no  more  food  until  dinner-time.  Dinner,  a  meal 
frugal  enough  for  a  convent,  he  took  at  home.  All  the  fore- 
noon he  spent  among  his  treasures,  walking  up  and  down 
the  gallery  where  they  hung  in  their  glory.  He  would  dust 
everything  himself,  furniture  and  pictures ;  he  never  wearied 
of  admiring.  Then  he  would  go  downstairs  to  his  daughter, 
drink  deep  of  a  father's  happiness,  and  start  out  upon  his 
walks  through  Paris,  to  attend  sales  or  visit  exhibitions  and 
the  like. 

If  Elie  Magus  found  a  great  work  of  art  under  the  right 
conditions,  the  discovery  put  new  life  into  the  man ;  here 
was  a  bit  of  sharp  practice,  a  bargain  to  make,  a  battle  of 
Marengo  to  win.  He  would  pile  ruse  on  ruse  to  buy  the  new 
sultana  as  cheaply  as  possible.  Magus  had  a  map  of  Europe 
on  which  all  great  pictures  were  marked;  his  coreligionists 
in  every  city  spied  out  business  for  him,  and  received  a  com- 
mission on  the  purchase.  And  then — what  rewards  for  all 
his  pains !  The  two  lost  Raf aels  so  earnestly  sought  after 
by  Rafael-lovers  are  both  in  his  collection.  Elie  Magus  owns 
the  original  portrait  of  Giorgione's  Mistress,  the  woman  for 
whom  the  painter  died ;  the  so-called  originals  are  merely 
copies  of  the  famous  picture,  which  is  worth  five  hundred 
thousand  francs,  according  to  its  owner's  estimation.  This 
Jew  possesses  Titian's  masterpiece,  an  Entombment  painted 


126  COUSIN  PONS 

for  Charles  V.,  sent  by  the  great  man  to  the  great  Emperor 
with  a  holograph  letter,  now  fastened  down  upon  the  lower 
part  of  the  canvas.  And  Magus  has  jet  another  Titian,  the 
original  sketch  from  which  all  the  portraits  of  Philip  II.  were 
painted.  His  remaining  ninety-seven  pictures  are  all  of  the 
same  rank  and  distinction.  Wherefore  Magus  laughs  at  our 
national  collection,  raked  by  the  sunlight  which  destroys  the 
fairest  paintings,  pouring  in  through  panes  of  glass  that 
act  as  lenses.  Picture  galleries  can  only  be  lighted  from 
above ;  Magus  opens  and  closes  his  shutters  himself ;  he  is 
as  careful  of  his  pictures  as  of  his  daughter,  his  second  idol. 
And  well  the  old  picture-fancier  knows  the  laws  of  the  lives 
of  pictures.  To  hear  him  talk,  a  great  picture  has  a  life 
of  its  own ;  it  is  changeable,  it  takes  its  beauty  from  the  color 
of  the  light.  Magus  talks  of  his  paintings  as  Dutch  fanciers 
used  to  talk  of  their  tulips ;  he  will  come  home  on  purpose 
to  see  some  one  picture  in  the  hour  of  its  glory,  when  the 
light  is  bright  and  clean. 

And  Magus  himself  was  a  living  picture  among  the  mo- 
tionless figures  on  the  wall — a  little  old  man,  dressed  in  a 
shabby  overcoat,  a  silk  waistcoat,  renewed  twice  in  a  score 
of  years,  and  a  very  dirty  pair  of  trousers,  with  a  bald  head, 
a  face  full  of  deep  hollows,  a  wrinkled  callous  skin,  a  beard 
that  had  a  trick  of  twitching  its  long  white  bristles,  a  menac- 
ing pointed  chin,  a  toothless  mouth,  eyes  bright  as  the  eyes 
of  his  dogs  in  the  yard,  and  a  nose  like  an  obelisk — ^there 
he  stood  in  his  gallery  smiling  at  the  beauty  called  into  being 
by  genius.  A  Jew  surrounded  by  his  millions  will  always  be 
one  of  the  finest  spectacles  which  humanity  can  give.  Robert 
Medal,  our  great  actor,  cannot  rise  to  this  height  of  poetry, 
sublime  though  he  is. 

Paris  of  all  the  cities  of  the  world  holds  most  of  such  men 
as  Magus,  strange  beings  with  a  strange  religion  in  their 
heart  of  hearts.  The  London  "  eccentric  "  always  finds  that 
worship,  like  life,  brings  weariness  and  satiety  in  the  end ; 
the  Parisian  monomaniac  lives  cheerfully  in  concubinage  with 
his  crotchet  to  the  last. 

Often  shall  you  meet  in  Paris  some  Pons,  some  Elie  Magus, 
dressed  badly  enough,  with  his  face  turned  from  the  rising 


COUSIN  PONS  12T 

sun  (like  the  countenance  of  the  perpetual  secretary  of  the 
Academie),  apparently  heeding  nothing,  conscious  of  noth- 
ing, paying  no  attention  to  shop-windows  nor  to  fair  passers- 
by,  walking  at  random,  so  to  speak,  with  nothing  in  his 
pockets,  and  to  all  appearance  an  equally  empty  head.  Do 
you  ask  to  what  Parisian  tribe  this  manner  of  man  belongs? 
He  is  a  collector,  a  millionaire,  one  of  the  most  impassioned 
souls  upon  earth;  he  and  his  like  are  capable  of  treading  the 
miry  ways  that  lead  to  the  police-court  if  so  they  may  gain 
possession  of  a  cup,  a  picture,  or  some  such  rare  unpublished 
piece  as  £lie  Magus  once  picked  up  one  memorable  day  in 
Germany. 

This  was  the  expert  to  whom  Remonencq  with  much  mys- 
tery conducted  La  Cibot.  Remonencq  always  asked  advice 
of  Elie  Magus  when  he  met  him  in  the  streets ;  and  more  than 
once  Magus  had  lent  him  money  through  Abramko,  knowing 
Remonencq's  honesty.  The  Chaussee  des  Minimes  is  close 
to  the  Rue  de  Normandie,  and  the  two  fellow-conspirators 
reached  the  house  in  ten  minutes. 

"  You  will  see  the  richest  dealer  in  curiosities,  the  greatest 
connoisseur  in  Paris,"  Remonencq  had  said.  And  Mme,  Cibot, 
therefore,  was  struck  dumb  with  amazement  to  be  confronted 
with  a  little  old  man  in  a  greatcoat  too  shabby  for  Cibot 
to  mend,  standing  watching  a  painter  at  work  upon  an  old 
picture  in  the  chilly  room  on  the  vast  ground  floor.  The 
old  man's  eyes,  full  of  cold  feline  malignance,  were  turned 
upon  her,  and  La  Cibot  shivered. 

"  What  do  you  want,  Remonencq?  "  asked  this  person. 

"  It  is  a  question  of  valuing  some  pictures ;  there  is  nobody 
but  you  in  Paris  who  can  tell  a  poor  tinker-fellow  like  me  how 
much  he  may  give  when  he  has  not  thousands  to  spend,  like 
you." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  Here  is  the  portress  of  the  house  where  the  gentleman 
lives;  she  does  for  him,  and  I  have  arranged  with  her " 

"  Who  is  the  owner  ?  " 

"  M.  Pons !  "  put  in  La  Cibot. 

"  Don't  know  the  name,"  said  Magus,  with  an  innocent 
air,  bringing  down  his  foot  very  gently  upon  his  artist's  toes. 


128  COUSIN  PONS 

Moret  the  painter,  knowing  the  value  of  Pons's  collec- 
tion, had  looked  up  suddenly  at  the  name.  It  was  a  move 
too  hazardous  to  try  with  anyone  but  Remonencq  and  La 
Cibot,  but  the  Jew  had  taken  the  woman's  measure  at  sight, 
and  his  eye  was  as  accurate  as  a  jeweler's  scales.  It  was  im- 
possible that  either  of  the  couple  should  know  how  often 
Magus  and  old  Pons  had  matched  their  claws.  And,  in 
truth,  both  rabid  amateurs  were  jealous  of  each  other.  The 
old  Jew  had  never  hoped  for  a  sight  of  a  seraglio  so  care- 
fully guarded ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  head  was  swimming. 
Pons's  collection  was  the  one  private  collection  in  Paris  which 
could  vie  with  his  own.  Pons's  idea  had  occurred  to  Magus 
twenty  years  later ;  but  as  a  dealer-amateur  the  door  of 
Pons's  museum  had  been  closed  for  him,  as  for  Dusommerard. 
Pons  and  Magus  had  at  heart  the  same  jealousy.  Neither 
of  them  cared  about  the  kind  of  celebrity  dear  to  the  ordinary 
collector.  And  now  for  Elie  Magus  came  his  chance  to  see 
the  poor  musician's  treasures  !  An  amateur  of  beauty  hiding 
in  a  boudoir  for  a  stolen  glance  at  a  mistress  concealed  from 
him  by  his  friend  might  feel  as  Elie  Magus  felt  at  that 
moment. 

La  Cibot  was  impressed  by  Remonencq's  respect  for  this 
singular  person ;  real  power,  moreover,  even  when  it  cannot 
be  explained,  is  always  felt ;  the  portress  was  supple  and 
obedient,  she  dropped  the  autocratic  tone  which  she  was  wont 
to  use  in  her  lodge  and  with  the  tenants,  accepted  Magus's 
conditions,  and  agreed  to  admit  him  into  Pons's  museum  that 
very  day. 

So  the  enemy  was  to  be  brought  into  the  citadel,  and  a 
stab  dealt  to  Pons's  very  heart.  For  ten  years  Pons  had 
carried  his  keys  about  with  him ;  he  had  forbidden  La  Cibot 
to  allow  anyone,  no  matter  whom,  to  cross  his  threshold ;  and 
La  Cibot  had  so  far  shared  Schmucke's  opinions  of  bric-a- 
brac,  that  she  had  obeyed  him.  The  good  Schmucke,  by 
speaking  of  the  splendors  as  "  chim-cracks,"  and  deploring 
his  friend's  mania,  had  taught  La  Cibot  to  despise  the  old 
rubbish,  and  so  secured  Pons's  museum  from  invasion  for 
many  a  long  year. 

When  Pons  took  to  his  bed,  Schmucke  filled  his  place  at 


COUSIN  PONS  129 

the  theater  and  gave  lessons  for  him  at  his  boarding-schools. 
He  did  his  utmost  to  do  the  work  of  two ;  but  with  Pons's 
sorrows  weighing  heavily  upon  his  mind,  the  task  took  all 
his  strength.  He  only  saw  his  friend  in  the  morning,  and 
again  at  dinner-time.  His  pupils  and  the  people  at  the 
theater,  seeing  the  poor  German  look  so  unhappy,  used  to 
ask  for  news  of  Pons ;  and  so  great  was  his  grief,  that  the 
indifferent  would  make  the  grimaces  of  sensibility  which  Pari- 
sians are  wont  to  reserve  for  the  greatest  calamities.  The 
very  springs  of  life  had  been  attacked,  the  good  German  was 
suffering  from  Pons's  pain  as  well  as  from  his  own.  When 
he  gave  a  music  lesson,  he  spent  half  the  time  in  talking  of 
Pons,  interrupting  himself  to  wonder  whether  his  friend  felt 
better  to-day,  and  the  little  school-girls  listening  heard 
lengthy  explanations  of  Pons's  symptoms.  He  would  rush 
over  to  the  Rue  de  Normandie  in  the  interval  between  two 
lessons  for  the  sake  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  with  Pons. 

When  at  last  he  saw  that  their  common  stock  was  almost 
exhausted,  when  Mme.  Cibot  (who  had  done  her  best  to  swell 
the  expenses  of  the  illness )  came  to  him  and  frightened  him ; 
then  the  old  music-master  felt  that  he  had  courage  of  which 
he  never  thought  himself  capable — courage  that  rose  above 
his  anguish.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  set  himself  to 
earn  money ;  money  was  needed  at  home.  One  of  the  school- 
girl pupils,  really  touched  by  their  troubles,  asked  Schmucke 
how  he  could  leave  his  friend  alone.  "  Montemoiselle,"  he 
answered,  with  the  sublime  smile  of  those  who  think  no  evil, 
"  ve  haf  Montame  Zipod,  ein  dreasure,  Montemoiselle,  eine 
bearl!     Bons  is  nursed  like  ein  brince." 

So  while  Schmucke  trotted  about  the  streets.  La  Cibot 
was  mistress  of  the  house  and  ruled  the  invalid.  How  should 
Pons  superintend  his  self-appointed  guardian  angel,  when 
he  had  taken  no  solid  food  for  a  fortnight,  and  lay  there  so 
weak  and  helpless  that  La  Cibot  was  obliged  to  lift  him  up 
and  carry  him  to  the  sofa  while  she  made  the  bed.'' 

La  Cibot's  visit  to  Elie  Magus  was  paid  (as  might  be 
expected)  while  Schmucke  breakfasted.  She  came  in  again 
just  as  the  German  was  bidding  his  friend  good-by;  for  since 
she  learned  that  Pons  possessed  a  fortune,  she  never  left 


130  COUSIN  PONS 

the  old  bachelor ;  she  brooded  over  him  and  his  treasures  like 
a  hen.  From  the  depths  of  a  comfortable  easy-chair  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  she  poured  forth  for  Pons's  delectation  the 
gossip  in  which  women  of  her  class  excel.  With  Machiavel- 
lian skill,  she  had  contrived  to  make  Pons  think  that  she 
was  indispensable  to  him ;  she  coaxed  and  she  wheedled,  always 
uneasy,  always  on  the  alert.  Mme.  Fontaine's  prophecy  had 
frightened  La  Cibot ;  she  vowed  to  herself  that  she  would 
gain  her  ends  by  kindness.  She  would  sleep  secure  on  M. 
Pons's  legacy,  but  her  rascality  should  keep  within  the  limits 
of  the  law.  For  ten  years  she  had  not  suspected  the  value 
of  Pons's  collection ;  she  had  a  clear  record  behind  her  of 
ten  years  of  devotion,  honesty,  and  disinterestedness ;  it  was 
a  magnificent  investment,  and  now  she  proposed  to  realize. 
In  one  day,  Remonencq's  hint  of  money  had  hatched  the  ser- 
pent's egg,  the  craving  for  riches  that  had  lain  dormant  with- 
in her  for  twenty  years.  Since  she  had  cherished  that  craving, 
it  had  grown  in  force  with  the  ferment  of  all  the  evil  that 
lurks  in  the  corners  of  the  heart.  How  she  acted  upon  the 
counsels  whispered  by  the  serpent  will  presently  be  seen. 

"  Well?  "  she  asked  of  Schmucke,  "  has  this  cherub  of  ours 
had  plenty  to  drink?     Is  he  better?  " 

"  He  is  not  doing  fery  veil,  tear  Montame  Zipod,  not  fery 
veil,"  said  poor  Schmucke,  brushing  away  the  tears  from 
his  eyes. 

"  Pooh !  you  make  too  much  of  it,  my  dear  M.  Schmucke ; 
we  must  take  things  as  we  find  them ;  Cibot  might  be  at 
death's  door,  and  I  should  not  take  it  to  heart  as  you  do. 
Come !  the  cherub  has  a  good  constitution.  And  he  has  been 
steady,  it  seems,  you  see ;  you  have  no  idea  what  an  age  sober 
people  live.  He  is  very  ill,  it  is  true,  but  with  all  the  care  I 
take  of  him,  I  shall  bring  him  round.  Be  easy,  look  after 
your  affairs,  I  will  keep  him  company  and  see  that  he  drinks 
his  pints  of  barley  water." 

"  Gif  you  vere  not  here,  I  should  die  of  anxiety "  said 

Schmucke,  squeezing  his  kind  housekeeper's  hand  In  both  his 
own  to  express  his  confidence  in  her. 

La  Cibot  wiped  her  eyes  as  she  went  back  to  the  invalid's 
room. 


COUSIN  PONS  131 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mme.  Cibot?  "  asked  Pons. 

"  It  is  M.  Schmucke  that  has  upset  me ;  he  is  crying  as 
if  you  were  dead,"  said  she.  "  If  you  are  not  well,  you  are 
not  so  bad  yet  that  nobody  need  cry  over  you ;  but  it  has  given 
me  such  a  turn !  Oh  dear !  oh  dear !  how  silly  it  is  of  me  to 
get  so  fond  of  people,  and  to  think  more  of  you  than  of  Cibot ! 
For,  after  all,  you  aren't  nothing  to  me,  you  are  only  my 
brother  by  Adam's  side ;  and  yet,  whenever  you  are  in  the 
question,  it  puts  me  in  such  a  taking,  upon  my  word  it  does ! 
I  would  cut  off  my  hand — my  left  hand,  of  course — to  see 
you  coming  and  going,  eating  your  meals,  and  screwing 
bargains  out  of  dealers  as  usual.  If  I  had  had  a  child  of 
my  own,  I  think  I  should  have  loved  it  as  I  love  you,  eh! 
There,  take  a  drink,  dearie ;  come,  now,  empty  the  glass. 
Drink  it  off.  Monsieur,  I  tell  you!  The  first  thing  Dr. 
Poulain  said  was,  '  If  M.  Pons  has  no  mind  to  go  to  Pere 
Lachaise,  he  ought  to  drink  as  many  buckets  full  of  water 
in  a  day  as  an  Auvergnat  will  sell.'  So,  come  now,  drink " 

"  But  I  do  drink,  Cibot,  my  good  woman ;  I  drink  and  drink 
till  I  am  deluged " 

"  That  is  right,"  said  the  portress,  as  she  took  away  the 
empty  glass.  "  That  is  the  way  to  get  better.  Dr.  Poulain 
had  another  patient,  ill  of  your  complaint;  but  he  had  no- 
body to  look  after  him;  his  children  kft  him  to  himself,  and 
he  died  because  he  didn't  drink  enough — so  you  must  drink, 
honey,  you  see — he  died,  and  they  buried  him  two  months  ago. 
And  if  you  were  to  die,  you  know,  you  would  drag  down  old 
M.  Schmucke  with  you,  sir.  He  is  like  a  child.  Ah !  he 
loves  you,  he  does,  the  dear  lamb  of  a  man;  no  woman  never 
loved  a  man  like  that !  He  doesn't  care  for  meat  nor  drink ; 
he  has  grown  as  thin  as  you  are  in  the  last  fortnight,  and 
you  are  nothing  but  skin  and  bones. — It  makes  me  jealous  to 
see  it,  for  I  am  very  fond  of  you;  but  not  to  that  degree; 
I  haven't  lost  my  appetite,  quite  the  other  way;  always  going 
up  and  down  stairs,  till  my  legs  are  so  tired  that  I  drop 
down  of  an  evening  like  a  lump  of  lead.  Here  am  I  neglect- 
ing my  poor  Cibot  for  you ;  Mile.  Remonencq  cooks  his 
victuals  for  him,  and  he  goes  on  about  it  and  says  that 
nothing  is  right !     At  that  I  tell  him  that  one  ought  to  put 


132  COUSIN  PONS 

up  with  something  for  the  sake  of  other  people,  and  that 
you  are  so  ill  that  I  cannot  leave  you.  In  the  first  place, 
you  can't  afford  a  nurse.  And  before  I  "would  have  a  nurse 
here! — I  that  have  done  for  you  these  ten  years.  And  those 
nurses  are  such  eaters,  they  eat  enough  for  ten ;  they  want 
wine,  and  sugar,  and  foot-warmers,  and  all  sorts  of  comforts. 
And  they  rob  their  patients  ..mless  the  patients  leave  them 
something  in  their  wills.  Have  a  nurse  in  here  to-day,  and 
to-morrow  we  should  find  a  picture  or  something  or  other 
gone " 

"  Oh !  Mme.  Cibot !  "  cried  Pons,  quite  beside  himself,  "  do 
not  leave  me !     No  one  must  touch  anything " 

"  I  am  here,"  said  La  Cibot ;  "  so  long  as  I  have  the 
strength  I  shall  be  here. — Be  easy.  There  was  Dr.  Poulain 
wanting  to  get  a  nurse  for  you ;  perhaps  he  has  his  eye  on 
your  treasures.  I  just  snubbed  him,  I  did.  '  The  gentleman 
won't  have  anyone  but  me,'  I  told  him.  '  He  is  used  to  me, 
and  I  am  used  to  him.'  So  he  said  no  more.  A  nurse,  in- 
deed !  They  are  all  thieves ;  I  hate  that  sort  of  woman,  I  do. 
Here  is  a  tale  that  will  show  you  how  sly  they  are.  There 
was  once  an  old  gentleman — it  was  Dr.  Poulain  himself,  mind 
you,  who  told  me  this — well,  a  Mme.  Sabatier,  a  woman  of 
thirty-six  that  used  to  sell  slippers  at  the  Palais  Royal — ' 
you  remember  the  Galerie  at  the  Palais  that  they  pulled 
down.'^  " 

Pons  nodded. 

"  Well,  at  that  time  she  had  not  done  very  well ;  her  husband 
used  to  drink,  and  died  of  spontaneous  imbustion ;  but  she 
had  been  a  fine  woman  in  her  time,  truth  to  tell,  not  that  it 
did  her  any  good,  though  she  had  friends  among  the  lawyers. 
So,  being  hard  up,  she  became  a  monthly  nurse,  and  Hved 
in  the  Rue  Barre-du-Bec.  Well,  she  went  out  to  nurse  an 
old  gentleman  that  had  a  disease  of  the  lurinary  guts  (saving 
your  presence)  ;  they  used  to  tap  him  like  an  artesian  well, 
and  he  needed  such  care  that  she  used  to  sleep  on  a  truckle-bed 
in  the  same  room  with  him.  You  would  hardly  believe  such 
a  thing ! — '  Men  respect  nothing,'  you'll  tell  me,  *  so  selfish 
as  they  are.'  Well,  she  used  to  talk  with  him,  you  under- 
stand ;  she  never  left  him,  she  amused  him,  she  told  him  stories, 


COUSIN  PONS  133 

she  drew  him  on  to  talk  (just  as  we  are  chatting  away 
together  now,  you  and  I,  eh?),  and  she  found  out  that 
his  nephews — the  old  gentleman  had  nephews — that  his 
nephews  were  wretches ;  they  had  worried  him,  and  final  end 
of  it,  they  had  brought  on  this  illness.  Well,  my  dear  sir, 
she  saved  his  life,  he  married  her,  and  they  have  a  fine  child ; 
Ma'am  Bordevin,  the  butcher's  wife  in  the  Rue  Chariot,  a 
relative  of  hers,  stood  godmother.     There  is  luck  for  you ! 

"  As  for  me,  I  am  married ;  and  if  I  have  no  children,  I 
don't  mind  saying  that  it  is  Cibot's  fault ;  he  is  too  fond  of 
me,  but  if  I  cared — ^never  mind.  What  would  have  become 
of  me  and  my  Cibot  if  we  had  had  a  family,  when  we  have  not  a 
penny  to  bless  ourselves  with  after  thirty  years  of  faithful 
service.?  I  have  not  a  farthing  belonging  to  nobody  else, 
that  is  what  comforts  me.  I  have  never  wronged  nobody. — 
Look  here,  suppose  now  (there  is  no  harm  in  supposing  when 
you  will  be  out  and  about  again  in  six  weeks'  time,  and 
sauntering  along  the  boulevard)  ;  well,  suppose  that  you  had 
put  me  down  in  your  will;  very  good,  I  shouldn't  never  rest 
till  I  had  found  your  heirs  and  given  the  money  back.  Such 
is  my  horror  of  anything  that  is  not  earned  by  the  sweat 
of  my  brow. 

"  You  will  say  to  me,  '  Why,  Mme.  Cibot,  why  should  you 
worry  yourself  like  that.''  You  have  fairly  earned  the  money ; 
you  looked  after  your  two  gentlemen  as  if  they  had  been 
your  children;  you  saved  them  a  thousand  francs  a  year — ' 
(for  there  are  plenty,  sir,  you  know,  that  would  have  had 
their  ten  thousand  francs  put  out  to  interest  by  now  if 
they  had  been  in  my  place) — '  so  if  the  worthy  gentleman 
leaves  you  a  trifle  of  an  annuity,  it  is  only  right.' — Suppose 
they  told  me  that.  Well,  no ;  I  am  not  thinking  of  myself. — ■ 
I  cannot  think  how  some  women  can  do  a  kindness  thinking 
of  themselves  all  the  time.  It  is  not  doing  good,  sir,  is  it? 
I  do  not  go  to  church  myself,  I  haven't  the  time;  but  my 
conscience  tells  me  what  is  right.  .  .  .  Don't  you  fidget 
like  that,  my  lamb ! — Don't  scratch  yourself !  .  .  .  Dear 
me,  how  yellow  you  grow !  So  yellow  you  are — quite  brown. 
How  funny  it  is  that  one  can  come  to  look  like  a  lemon  in 
three  weeks!     .     .     .     Honesty  is  all  that  poor  folk  have, 


134.  COUSIN  PONS 

and  one  must  surely  have  something!  Suppose  that  you 
were  just  at  death's  door,  I  should  be  the  first  to  tell  you 
that  you  ought  to  leave  all  that  you  have  to  M.  Schmucke. 
It  is  your  duty,  for  he  is  all  the  family  you  have.  He  loves 
you,  he  does,  as  a  dog  loves  his  master," 

"  Ah !  yes,"  said  Pons ;  "  nobody  else  has  ever  loved  me  all 
my  life  long " 

"  Ah !  that  is  not  kind  of  you,  sir,"  said  Mme.  Cibot ; 
"  then  I  do  not  love  you,  I  suppose?  " 

"  I  do  not  say  so,  my  dear  Mme.  Cibot." 

"  Good.  You  take  me  for  a  servant,  do  you,  a  common 
servant,  as  if  I  hadn't  no  heart !  Goodness  me !  for  eleven 
years  you  do  for  two  old  bachelors,  you  think  of  nothing  but 
their  comfort.  I  have  turned  half  a  score  of  greengrocers' 
shops  upside  down  for  you,  I  have  talked  people  round  to 
get  you  good  Brie  cheese;  I  have  gone  down  as  far  as  the 
market  for  fresh  butter  for  you;  I  have  taken  such  care  of 
things  that  nothing  of  yours  hasn't  been  chipped  nor  broken 
in  all  these  ten  years ;  I  have  just  treated  you  like  my  own 
children ;  and  then  to  hear  a  '  My  dear  Mme.  Cibot,'  that 
shows  that  there  is  not  a  bit  of  feeling  for  you  in  the  heart 
of  an  old  gentleman  that  you  have  cared  for  like  a  king's  son ! 
for  the  little  King  of  Rome  was  not  so  well  cared  for  as  you 
have  been.  You  may  bet  that  he  was  not  as  well  looked 
after.  He  died  in  his  prime ;  there  is  proof  for  you. 
Come,  sir,  you  are  unjust!  You  are  ungrateful!  It  is  be- 
cause I  am  only  a  poor  portress.  Goodness  me!  are  you 
one  of  those  that  think  we  are  dogs? " 

"  But,  my  dear  Mme.  Cibot " 

"  Indeed,  you  that  know  so  much,  tell  me  why  we  porters 
are  treated  like  this,  and  are  supposed  to  have  no  feelings ; 
people  look  down  on  us  in  these  days  when  they  talk  of 
Equality ! — As  for  me,  am  I  not  as  good  as  another  woman, 
I  that  Avas  one  of  the  finest  women  in  Paris,  and  was  called 
La  belle  Ecailiere,  and  received  declarations  seven  or  eight 

times  a  day?     And  even  now  if  I  liked Look  here,  sir, 

you  know  that  little  scrubby  marine-store-dealer  downstairs? 
Very  well,  he  would  marry  me  any  day,  if  I  were  a  widow 
that  is,  with  his  eyes  shut ;  he  has  had  them  looking  wide  open 


COUSIN  PONS  135 

in  my  direction  so  often ;  he  is  always  saying,  *  Oh !  what 
fine  arms  you  have,  Ma'am  Cibot! — I  dreamed  last  night 
that  it  was  bread  and  I  was  butter,  and  I  was  spread  on  the 
top.'     Look,  sir,  there  is  an  arm !  " 

She  rolled  up  her  sleeve  and  displayed  the  shapeliest  arm 
imaginable,  as  white  and  fresh  as  her  hand  was  red  and 
rough ;  a  plump,  round,  dimpled  arm,  drawn  from  its  merino 
sheath  like  a  blade  from  the  scabbard  to  dazzle  Pons,  who 
looked  away. 

"  For  every  oyster  the  knife  opened,  that  arm  has  opened 
a  heart!  Well,  it  belongs  to  Cibot,  and  I  did  wrong  when 
I  neglected  him,  poor  dear ;  he  would  throw  himself  over  a 
precipice  at  a  word  from  me;  while  you,  sir,  that  call  me 
'  My  dear  Mme.   Cibot '  when   I  do  impossible  things   for 

you ;' 

"  Do  just  listen  to  me,"  broke  in  the  patient;  "  I  cannot 
call  you  my  mother,  nor  my  wife " 

"  No,  never  in  all  my  bom  days  will  I  take  again  to 
anybody " 

"  Do  let  me  speak !  "  continued  Pons.  "  Let  us  see ;  I  put 
M.  Schmucke  first " 

"  M.  Schmucke !  there  is  a  heart  for  you,"  cried  La  Cibot. 
"  Ah !  he  loves  me,  but  then  he  is  poor.  It  is  money  that 
deadens  the  heart ;  and  you  are  rich !  Oh,  well,  take  a  nurse, 
you  will  see  what  a  life  she  will  lead  you;  she  will  torment 
you,  you  will  be  like  a  cockchafer  on  a  string.  The  doctor 
will  say  that  you  must  have  plenty  to  drink,  and  she  will  do 
nothing  but  feed  you.  She  will  bring  you  to  your  grave  and 
rob  you.  You  do  not  deserve  to  have  a  Mme.  Cibot ! — there ! 
When  Dr.  Poulain  comes,  ask  him  for  a  nurse." 

"  Oh,  fiddlestick-end !  "  the  patient  cried  angrily.  "  Will 
you  listen  to  me?  When  I  spoke  of  my  friend  Schmucke,  I 
was  not  thinking  of  women.  I  know  quite  well  that  no  one 
cares  for  me  so  sincerely  as  you  do,  you  and  Schmucke " 

"  Have  the  goodness  not  to  irritate  yourself  in  this  way ! " 
exclaimed  La  Cibot,  plimging  down  upon  Pons  and  covering 
him  by  force  with  the  bedclothes. 

"  How  should  I  not  love  you.''  "  said  poor  Pons. 

"  You  love  me,  really  ?     .     .     .     There,  there,  forgive  me. 


136  COUSIN  PONS 

sir !  "  she  said,  crying  and  wiping  her  eyest,  "  Ah,  yes,  of 
course,  you  love  me,  as  you  love  a  servant,  that  is  the  way ! — 
a  servant  to  whom  you  throw  an  annuity  of  six  hundred 
francs  hke  a  crust  you  fling  into  a  dog's  kennel " 

"  Oh !  Mme.  Cibot,"  cried  Pons,  "  for  what  do  you  take 
me?     You  do  not  know  me." 

"  Ah !  you  will  care  even  more  than  that  for  me,"  she  said, 
meeting  Pons's  eyes.  "  You  will  love  your  kind  old  Cibot 
like  a  mother,  will  you  not.^*  A  mother,  that  is  it!  I  am 
your  mother ;  you  are  both  of  you  my  children.  .  .  .  Ah, 
if  I  only  knew  them  that  caused  you  this  sorrow,  I  would  do 
that  which  would  bring  me  into  the  police-courts,  and  even 
to  prison ;  I  would  tear  their  eyes  out !  Such  people  deserve 
to  die  at  the  Barriere  Saint-Jacques,  and  that  is  too  good 
for  such  scoundrels.  ...  So  kind,  so  good  as  you  are 
^for  you  have  a  heart  of  gold),  you  were  sent  into  the  world 
to  make  some  woman  happy !  .  .  .  Yes,  you  would  have 
made  her  happy,  as  anybody  can  see ;  you  were  cut  out  for 
that.  In  the  very  beginning,  when  I  saw  how  you  were  with 
M.  Schmucke,  I  said  to  myself, '  M.  Pons  has  missed  the  life  he 
was  meant  for;  he  was  made  to  be  a  good  husband.'  Come 
now,  you  like  women." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Pons,  "  and  no  woman  has  been  mine." 

"Really.'*"  exclaimed  La  Cibot,  with  a  provocative  air 
AS  she  came  nearer  and  took  Pons's  hand  in  hers.  "  Do  you 
not  know  what  it  is  to  love  a  woman  that  will  do  anything 
for  her  lover.'*  Is  it  possible.''  If  I  were  in  your  place,  I 
should  not  wish  to  leave  this  world  for  another  until  I  had 
known  the  greatest  happiness  on  earth !  .  .  .  Poor  dear ! 
If  I  was  now  what  I  was  once,  I  would  leave  Cibot  for  you ! 
upon  my  word,  I  would !  Why,  with  a  nose  shaped  like  that 
— for  you  have  a  fine  nose — how  did  you  manage  it,  poor 
cherub.''  .  .  .  You  will  tell  me  that  '  not  every  woman 
knows  a  man  when  she  sees  him  ' ;  and  a  pity  it  is  that  they 
marry  so  at  random  as  they  do,  it  makes  you  sorry  to  see 
it. — Now,  for  my  own  part,  I  should  have  thought  that  you 
had  had  mistresses  by  the  dozen — dancers,  actresses,  and 
duchesses,  for  you  went  out  so  much.  .  .  .  When  you 
went  out,  I  used  to  say  to  Cibot,  '  Look !  there  is  M.  Pons 


COUSIN  PONS  13T 

going  a-gallivanting,'  on  my  word,  I  did,  I  was  so  sure  that 
women  ran  after  you.  Heaven  made  you  for  love. 
Why,  my  dear  sir,  I  found  that  out  the  first  day  that  you 
dined  at  home,  and  you  were  so  touched  with  M.  Schmucke's 
pleasure.  And  next  day  M.  Schmucke  kept  saying  to  me, 
'  Montame  Zipod,  he  haf  tined  hier,'  with  the  tears  in  his 
eyes,  till  I  cried  along  with  him  like  a  fool,  as  I  am.  And 
how  sad  he  looked  when  you  took  to  gadding  abroad  again 
and  dining  out !  Poor  man,  you  never  saw  anyone  so  dis- 
consolate !  Ah !  you  are  quite  right  to  leave  everything  to 
him.  Dear,  worthy  man,  why,  he  is  as  good  as  a  family  to 
you,  he  is !  Do  not  forget  him ;  for  if  you  do,  God  will  not 
receive  you  into  His  Paradise,  for  those  that  have  been  un- 
grateful to  their  friends  and  left  them  no  rentes  will  not  go 
to  Heaven." 

In  vain  Pons  tried  to  put  in  a  word ;  La  Cibot  talked  as 
the  wind  blows.  Means  of  arresting  steam-engines  have  been 
invented,  but  it  would  tax  a  mechanician's  genius  to  discover 
any  plan  for  stopping  a  portress's  tongue. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  continued  she.  "  But  it  does 
not  kill  you,  my  dear  gentleman,  to  make  a  will  when  you 
are  out  of  health ;  and  in  your  place  I  would  not  leave  that 
poor  dear  alone,  for  fear  that  something  might  happen ; 
he  is  like  God  Almighty's  lamb,  he  knows  nothing  about  noth- 
ing, and  I  should  not  like  him  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  those 
sharks  of  lawyers  and  a  wretched  pack  of  relations.  Let 
us  see  now,  has  one  of  them  come  here  to  see  you  in  twenty 
years.''  And  would  you  leave  your  property  to  them?  Do 
you  know,  they  say  that  all  these  things  here  are  worth  some- 
thing." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Pons. 

"  Remonencq,  who  deals  in  pictures,  and  knows  that  you 
are  an  amateur,  says  that  he  would  be  quite  ready  to  pay 
you  an  annuity  of  thirty  thousand  francs  so  long  as  you  live,, 
to  have  the  pictures  afterwards.  .  .  .  There  is  a  chance ! 
If  I  were  you,  I  should  take  it.  Why,  I  thought  he  said 
it  for  a  joke  when  he  told  me  that.  You  ought  to  let  M. 
Schmucke  know  the  value  of  all  those  things,  for  he  is  a  man 
that  could  be  cheated  like  a  child.     He  has  not  the  slightest 


138  COUSIN  PONS 

idea  of  the  value  of  these  fine  things  that  you  have !  He  so 
little  suspects  it,  that  he  would  give  them  away  for  a  morsel 
of  bread  if  he  did  not  keep  them  all  his  life  for  love  of  you; 
always  supposing  that  he  lives  after  you,  for  he  will  die  of 
your  death.  But  /  am  here ;  I  will  take  his  part  against 
anybody  and  everybody !  .  .  .  I  and  Cibot  will  defend 
him." 

"  Dear  Mme.  Cibot !  "  said  Pons,  "  what  would  have  become 
of  me  if  it  had  not  been  for  you  and  Schmucke.''  "  He  felt 
touched  by  tliis  horrible  prattle ;  the  feeling  in  it  seemed  to 
be  ingenuous,  as  it  usually  is  in  the  speech  of  the  people. 

"  Ah !  we  really  are  your  only  friends  on  earth,  that  is 
very  true,  that  is.  But  two  good  hearts  are  worth  all  the 
families  in  the  world. — Don't  talk  of  families  to  me !  A 
family,  as  the  old  actor  said  of  the  tongue,  is  the  best  and 
the  worst  of  all  things.  .  .  .  Where  are  those  relations 
of  yours  now?    Have  you  any.''    I  have  never  seen  them " 

"  They  have  brought  me  to  lie  here,"  said  Pons,  with 
intense  bitterness. 

"  So  you  have  relations !  .  .  ."  cried  La  Cibot,  spring- 
ing up  as  if  her  easy-chair  had  been  heated  red-hot.  "  Oh, 
well,  they  are  a  nice  lot,  are  your  relations !  What !  these 
three  weeks — for  this  is  the  twentieth  day,  to-day,  that  you 
have  been  ill  and  like  to  die — in  these  three  weeks  they  have 
not  come  once  to  ask  for  news  of  you.''  That's  a  trifle  too 
strong,  that  is !  .  .  .  Why,  in  your  place,  I  would  leave 
all  I  had  to  the  Foundling  Hospital  sooner  than  give  them 
one  farthing !  " 

"  Well,  my  dear  Mme.  Cibot,  I  meant  to  leave  aU  that  I 
had  to  a  first  cousin  once  removed,  the  daughter  of  my  first 
cousin.  President  Camusot,  you  know,  who  came  here  one 
morning  nearly  two  months  ago." 

"  Oh !  a  little  stout  man  who  sent  his  servants  to  beg 
your  pardon — for  his  wife's  blunder.'' — The  housemaid  came 
asking  me  questions  about  you,  an  affected  old  creature  she 
is,  my  fingers  itched  to  give  her  velvet  tippet  a  dusting  with 
my  broom-handle !  A  servant  wearing  a  velvet  tippet !  did 
anybody  ever  see  the  like.''  No,  upon  my  word,  the  world  is 
turned  upside  down;  what  is  the  use  of  making  a  Revolution.'' 


COUSIN  PONS  139 

Dine  twice  a  day  if  you  can  afford  it,  you  scamps  of  rich 
folk !  But  laws  are  no  good,  I  tell  you,  and  nothing  will 
be  safe  if  Louis-Philippe  does  not  keep  people  in  their  places ; 
for,  after  all,  if  we  are  all  equal,  eh,  sir?  a  housemaid  didn't 
ought  to  have  a  velvet  tippet,  while  I,  Mme.  Cibot,  haven't 
one,  after  thirty  years  of  honest  work. — There  is  a  pretty 
thing  for  you !  People  ought  to  be  able  to  tell  who  you  are. 
A  housemaid  is  a  housemaid,  just  as  I  myself  am  a  portress. 
Why  do  they  have  silk  epaulettes  in  the  army.''  Let  every- 
body keep  their  place.  Look  here,  do  you  want  me  to  tell 
you  what  all  this  comes  to?  Very  well,  France  is  going  to 
the  dogs  ...  If  the  Emperor  had  been  here,  things 
would  have  been  very  different,  Avouldn't  they,  sir? 
So  I  said  to  Cibot,  I  said,  '  See  here,  Cibot,  a  house  where 
the  servants  wear  velvet  tippets  belongs  to  people  that  have 
no  heart  in  them '  " 

"  No  heart  in  them,  that  is  just  it,"  repeated  Pons.  And 
with  that  he  began  to  tell  Mme.  Cibot  about  his  troubles  and 
mortifications,  she  pouring  out  abuse  of  the  relations  the 
while  and  showing  exceeding  tenderness  on  every  fresh  sen- 
tence in  the  sad  history.      She  fairly  wept  at  last. 

To  understand  the  sudden  intimacy  between  the  old  musi- 
cian and  Mme.  Cibot,  you  have  only  to  imagine  the  position 
of  an  old  bachelor  lying  on  his  bed  of  pain,  seriously  ill 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  Pons  felt  that  he  was  alone 
in  the  world ;  the  days  that  he  spent  by  himself  were  all  the 
longer  because  he  was  struggling  with  the  indefinable  nausea 
of  a  liver  complaint  which  blackens  the  brightest  life.  Cut 
off  from  all  his  many  interests,  the  sufferer  falls  a  victim 
to  a  kind  of  nostalgia ;  he  regrets  the  many  sights  to  be  seen 
for  nothing  in  Paris.  The  isolation,  the  darkened  days,  the 
suffering  that  affects  the  mind  and  spirits  even  more  than 
the  body,  the  emptiness  of  the  life, — all  these  things  tend 
to  induce  him  to  cling  to  the  human  being  who  waits  on  him 
as  a  drowned  man  clings  to  a  plank;  and  this  especially  if 
the  bachelor-patient's  character  is  as  weak  as  his  nature  is 
sensitive  and  credulous. 

Pons  was  charmed  to  hear  La  Cibot's  tittle-tattle. 
Schmucke,  Mme.  Cibot,  and  Dr.  Poulain  meant  all  human- 


140  COUSIN  PONS 

ily  to  him  now,  when  his  sickroom  became  the  universe.  If 
invalids'  thoughts,  as  a  rule,  never  travel  beyond  in  the  little 
space  over  which  their  ej^es  can  wander ;  if  their  selfishness, 
in  its  narrow  sphere,  subordinates  all  creatures  and  all  things 
to  itself,  you  can  imagine  the  lengths  to  which  an  old  bachelor 
may  go.  Before  three  weeks  were  out  he  had  even  gone  so 
far  as  to  regret,  once  and  again,  that  he  had  not  married 
Madeleine  Vivet !  Mme.  Cibot,  too,  had  made  immense  prog- 
ress in  his  esteem  in  those  three  weeks ;  without  her  he  felt 
that  he  should  have  been  utterly  lost ;  for  as  for  Schmucke, 
the  poor  invalid  looked  upon  him  as  a  second  Pons.  La 
Cibot's  prodigious  art  consisted  in  expressing  Pons's  own 
ideas,  and  this  she  did  quite  unconsciously. 

"  Ah !  here  comes  the  doctor ! "  she  exclaimed,  as  the  bell 
rang,  and  away  she  went,  knowing  very  well  that  Remonencq 
had  come  with  the  Jew. 

"  Make  no  noise,  gentlemen,"  said  she,  "  he  must  not  know 
anything.  He  is  all  on  the  fidget  when  his  precious  treasures 
are  concerned." 

"  A  walk  round  will  be  enough,"  said  the  Hebrew,  armed 
with  a  magnifying-glass  and  a  lorgnette. 

The  greater  part  of  Pons's  collection  was  installed  in  a 
great  old-fashioned  salon  such  as  French  architects  used  to 
build  for  the  old  noblesse;  a  room  twenty-five  feet  broad, 
some  thirty  feet  in  length,  and  thirteen  in  height.  Pons's 
pictures  to  the  number  of  sixty-seven  hung  upon  the  white- 
and-gold  paneled  walls ;  time,  however,  had  reddened  the  gold 
and  softened  the  white  to  an  ivory  tint,  so  that  the  whole 
was  toned  down,  and  the  general  effect  subordinated  to  the 
effect  of  the  pictures.  Fourteen  statues  stood  on  pedestals 
set  in  the  corners  of  the  room,  or  among  the  pictures,  or  on 
brackets  inlaid  by  Boule ;  sideboards  of  carved  ebony,  royally 
rich,  surrounded  the  walls  to  elbow  height,  all  the  shelves  filled 
with  curiosities ;  in  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  a  row  of 
carved  credence-tables,  covered  with  rare  miracles  of  handi- 
craft— ^with  ivories  and  bronzes,  wood-carvings  and  enamels, 
jewelry  and  porcelain. 

As  soon  as  Elie  Magus  entered  the  sanctuary,  he  went 
straight  to  the  four  masterpieces;  he  saw  at  a  glance  that 


COUSIN  PONS  141 

these  were  the  gems  of  Pons's  collection,  and  masters  lacking 
in  his  own.  For  Elie  Magus  these  were  the  naturalist's 
desiderata  for  which  men  undertake  long  voyages  from  east 
to  west,  through  deserts  and  tropical  countries,  across  south- 
ern savannahs,  through  virgin  forests. 

The  first  was  a  painting  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  the  sec- 
ond a  Fra  Bartolommeo  della  Porta,  the  third  a  Hobbema 
landscape,  and  the  fourth  and  last  a  Diirer — a  portrait  of 
a  woman.  Four  diamonds  indeed !  In  the  history  of  art, 
Sebastian  del  Piombo  is  like  a  shining  point  in  which  three 
schools  meet,  each  bringing  its  pre-eminent  qualities.  A 
Venetian  painter,  he  came  to  Rome  to  learn  the  manner  of 
Rafael  under  the  direction  of  Michel  Angelo,  who  would  fain 
oppose  Rafael  on  his  own  ground  by  pitting  one  of  his  own 
lieutenants  against  the  reigning  king  of  art.  And  so  it  came 
to  pass  that  in  del  Piombo's  indolent  genius  Venetian  color 
was  blended  with  Florentine  composition  and  a  something  of 
Rafael's  manner  in  the  few  pictures  which  he  deigned  to 
paint,  and  the  sketches  were  made  for  him,  it  is  said,  by 
Michel  Angelo  himself. 

If  you  would  see  the  perfection  to  which  the  painter  at- 
tained (armed  as  he  was  with  triple  power),  go  to  the  Louvre 
and  look  at  the  Baccio  Bandinelli  portrait;  you  might  place 
it  beside  Titian's  Man  with  a  Glove,  or  by  that  other  Portrait 
of  an  Old  Man  in  which  Rafael's  consummate  skill  blends 
with  Correggio's  art ;  or,  again,  compare  it  with  Lionardo  da 
Vinci's  Charles  VIII.,  and  the  picture  will  scarcely  lose.  The 
four  pearls  are  equal ;  there  are  the  same  luster  and  sheen, 
the  same  rounded  completeness,  the  same  brilliancy.  Art 
can  go  no  further  than  this.  Art  has  risen  above  Nature, 
since  Nature  only  gives  her  creatures  a  few  brief  years  of 
Ufe. 

Pons  possessed  one  example  of  this  immortal  great  genius 
and  incurably  indolent  painter;  it  was  a  Knight  of  Malta^ 
a  Templar  kneeling  in  prayer.  The  picture  was  painted  on 
slate,  and  in  its  unfaded  color  and  its  finish  was  immeasur- 
ably finer  than  the  Baccio  Bandinelli. 

Fra  Bartolommeo  was  represented  by  a  Holy  Family^ 
which  many  connoisseurs  might  have  taken   for  a  Rafael. 


14a  COUSIN  PONS 

The  Hobbema  would  have  fetched  sixty  thousand  francs  at 
a  pubhc  sale ;  and  as  for  the  Diirer,  it  was  equal  to  the  famous 
Holzschuer  portrait  at  Nuremberg  for  which  the  Kings  of 
Bavaria,  Holland,  and  Prussia  have  vainly  offered  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  again  and  again.  Was  it  the  portrait 
of  the  wife  or  the  daughter  of  Holzschuer,  Albrecht  Diirer's 
personal  friend? — The  hypothesis  seems  to  be  a  certainty, 
for  the  attitude  of  the  figure  in  Pons's  picture  suggests  that 
it  is  meant  for  a  pend"  t,  the  position  of  the  coat-of-arms 
is  the  same  as  in  the  N.^-'emberg  portrait;  and,  finally,  the 
atatis  sucE  XLI.  accords  perfectly  with  the  age  inscribed  on 
the  picture  religiously  kept  by  the  Holzschuers  of  Nurem- 
berg, and  but  recently  engraved. 

The  tears  stood  in  Elie  Magus's  eyes  as  he  looked  from 
one  masterpiece  to  another.  He  turned  round  to  La  Cibot, 
*'  I  will  give  you  a  commission  of  two  thousand  francs  on 
each  of  the  pictures  if  you  can  arrange  that  I  shall  have  them 
for  forty  thousand  francs,"  he  said.  La  Cibot  was  amazed 
at  this  good  fortune  dropped  from  the  sky.  Admiration, 
or,  to  be  more  accurate,  delirious  joy,  had  wrought  such 
havoc  in  the  Jew's  brain,  that  it  had  actually  unsettled  his 
habitual  greed,  and  he  fell  headlong  into  enthusiasm,  as 
you  see. 

"  And   I .''  "   put  in   Remonencq,  who  knew   nothing 

about  pictures. 

"  Everything  here  is  equally  good,"  the  Jew  said  cunningly, 
lowering  his  voice  for  Remonencq's  ear ;  "  take  ten  pictures 
just  as  they  come  and  on  the  same  conditions.  Your  fortune 
will  be  made." 

Again  the  three  thieves  looked  each  other  in  the  face,  each 
one  of  them  overcome  with  the  keenest  of  all  joys — sated 
greed.  All  of  a  sudden  the  sick  man's  voice  rang  through 
the  room ;  the  tones  vibrated  like  the  strokes  of  a  bell — 

"Who  is  there?"  called  Pons. 

"Monsieur!  just  go  back  to  bed!"  exclaimed  La  Cibot, 
springing  upon  Pons  and  dragging  him  by  main  force. 
''What  next!  Have  you  a  mind  to  kill  yourself.'' — ^Very 
well,  then,  it  is  not  Dr.  Poulain,  it  is  Remonencq,  good 
soul,  so  anxious  that  he  has  come  to  ask  after  you ! — Every- 


COUSIN  PONS  143 

body  is  so  fond  of  you  that  the  whole  house  is  in  a  flutter. 
So  what  is  there  to  fear?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  there  are  several  of  you,"  said  Pons. 

"  Several  ?  that  is  good !  What  next !  Are  you  dream- 
ing?— You  will  go  off  your  head  before  you  have  done,  upon 
my  word ! — ^Here,  look !  " — and  La  Cibot  flung  open  the  door, 
signed  to  Magus  to  go,  and  beckoned  to  Remonencq. 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  Auvergnat,  now  supplied 
with  something  to  say,  "  I  just  came  to  ask  after  you,  for 
the  whole  house  is  alarmed  about  you. — Nobody  likes  Death 
to  set  foot  in  a  house ! — And  lastly.  Daddy  Monistrol,  whom 
you  know  very  well,  told  me  to  tell  you  that  if  you  wanted 
money  he  was  at  your  service " 

"  He  sent  you  here  to  take  a  look  round  at  my  knick- 
knacks  !  "  returned  the  old  collector  from  his  bed ;  and  the 
sour  tones  of  his  voice  were  full  of  suspicion. 

A  suff'erer  from  liver  complaint  nearly  always  takes  mo- 
mentary and  special  dislikes  to  some  person  or  thing,  and 
concentrates  all  his  ill-humor  upon  the  object.  Pons  imag- 
ined that  someone  had  designs  upon  his  precious  collection ; 
the  thought  of  guarding  it  became  a  fixed  idea  with  him; 
Schmucke  was  continually  sent  to  see  if  anyone  had  stolen 
into  the  sanctuary. 

"  Your  collection  is  fine  enough  to  attract  the  attention  of 
chineurs"  Remonencq  answered  astutely.  "  I  am  not  much 
in  the  art  line  myself;  but  you  are  supposed  to  be  such  a 
great  connoisseur,  sir,  that,  little  as  I  know,  I  would  willingly 
buy  your  collection,  sir,  with  my  eyes  shut — supposing,  for 
instance,  that  you  should  need  money  some  time  or  other,  for 
nothing  costs  so  much  as  these  confounded  iUnesses ;  there  was 
my  sister  now,  when  she  had  a  bad  turn,  she  spent  thirty  sous 
on  medicine  in  ten  days,  when  she  would  have  got  better 
again  just  as  well  without.  Doctors  are  rascals  that  take 
advantage  of  your  condition  to " 

"  Thank  you,  good-day,  good-day,"  broke  in  Pons,  eying 
the  marine-store-dealer  uneasily. 

*'  I  will  go  to  the  door  with  him,  for  fear  he  should  touch 
something,"  La  Cibot  whispered  to  her  patient. 

*'  Yes,  yes,"  answered  the  invalid,  thanking  her  by  a  glance. 


lU  COUSIN  PONS 

La  Clbot  shut  the  bedroom  door  behind  her,  and  Pons's 
suspicions  awoke  again  at  once. 

She  found  Magus  standing  motionless  before  the  four  pic- 
tures. His  immobility,  his  admiration,  can  only  be  under- 
stood by  other  souls  open  to  ideal  beauty,  to  the  ineffable 
joy  of  beholding  art  made  perfect:  such  as  these  can  stand 
for  whole  hours  before  the  Antiope — Correggio's  masterpiece 
■ — before  Lionardo's  Gioconda,  Titian's  Mistress,  Andrea  del 
Sarto's  Holy  Family,  Domenichino's  Children  among  the 
Flowers,  Rafael's  little  cameo,  or  his  Portrait  of  an  Old  Man 
— Art's  greatest  masterpieces. 

"  Be  quick  and  go,  and  make  no  noise,"  said  La  Cibot. 

The  Jew  walked  slowly  backwards,  giving  the  pictures  such 
a  farewell  gaze  as  a  lover  gives  his  love.  Outside,  on  the 
landing.  La  Cibot  tapped  his  bony  arm.  His  rapt  con- 
templation had  put  an  idea  into  her  head. 

"  Make  it  four  thousand  francs  for  each  picture,"  said 
she,  "  or  I  do  nothing " 

"  I  am  so  poor !  .  .  ."  began  Magus.  "  I  want  the 
pictures  simply  for  their  own  sake,  simply  and  solely  for 
the  love  of  art,  my  dear  lady." 

"  I  can  understand  that  love,  sonny,  you  are  so  dried  up. 
But  if  you  do  not  promise  me  sixteen  thousand  francs  now, 
before  Remonencq  here,  I  shall  want  twenty  to-morrow." 

"  Sixteen ;  I  promise,"  returned  the  Jew,  frightened  by 
the  woman's  rapacity. 

La  Cibot  turned  to  Remonencq. 

"  What  oath  can  a  Jew  swear  .f* "  she  inquired. 

"  You  may  trust  him,"  replied  the  marine-store-dealer. 
"  He  is  as  honest  as  I  am." 

"  Very  well ;  and  you  ?  "  asked  she,  "  if  I  get  him  to  sell 
them  to  you,  what  will  you  give  me?  " 

"  Half-share  of  profits,"  Remonencq  answered  briskly. 

*'  I  would  rather  have  a  lump  sum,"  returned  La  Cibot ; 
*'  I  am  not  in  business  myself." 

"  You  understand  business  uncommonly  well ! "  put  in 
Elie  Magus,  smiling ;  "  a  famous  saleswoman  you  would 
make !  " 

"  I  want  her  to  take  me  into  partnership,  me  and  my 


COUSIN  PONS  145 

goods,"  said  the  Auvergnat,  as  he  took  La  Cibot's  plump 
arm  and  gave  it  playful  taps  like  hammer-strokes.  "  I  don't 
ask  her  to  bring  anything  into  the  firm  but  her  good  looks ! 
You  are  making  a  mistake  when  you  stick  to  your  Turk  of 
a  Cibot  and  his  needle.  Is  a  little  bit  of  a  porter  the  man 
to  make  a  woman  rich — a  fine  woman  like  you.''  Ah,  what 
a  figure  you  would  make  in  a  shop  on  the  boulevard,  all 
among  the  curiosities,  gossiping  with  amateurs  and  twisting 
them  round  your  fingers !  Just  you  leave  your  lodge  as  soon 
as  you  have  lined  your  purse  here,  and  you  shall  see  what 
will  become  of  us  both." 

"  Lined  my  purse !  "  cried  the  Cibot.  *'  I  am  incapable 
of  taking  the  worth  of  a  single  pin ;  you  mind  that,  Remon- 
encq !  I  am  known  in  the  neighborhood  for  an  honest  woman, 
I  am." 

La  Cibot's  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"  There,  never  mind,"  said  Elie  Magus ;  "  this  Auvergnat 
seems  to  be  too  fond  of  you  to  mean  to  insult  you." 

"  How  she  would  draw  on  the  customers !  "  cried  the  Auver- 
gnat. 

Mme.  Cibot  softened  at  this. 

"  Be  fair,  sonnies,"  quoth  she,  "  and  judge  for  yourselves 
how  I  am  placed.  These  ten  years  past  I  have  been  wearing 
my  life  out  for  those  two  old  bachelors  yonder,  and  neither 
of  them  has  given  me  anything  but  words.  Remonencq  will 
tell  you  that  I  feed  them  by  contract,  and  lose  twenty  or 
thirty  sous  a  day;  all  my  savings  have  gone  that  way,  by 
the  soul  of  my  mother  (the  only  author  of  my  days  that  I 
ever  knew),  this  is  as  true  as  that  I  live,  and  that  this  is 
the  light  of  day,  and  may  my  coffee  poison  me  if  I  lie 
about  a  farthing.  Well,  there  is  one  up  there  that  will  die 
soon,  eh.?  and  he  the  richer  of  the  two  that  I  have  treated 
like  my  own  cliildren.  Would  you  believe  it,  my  dear  sir, 
I  have  told  him  over  and  over  again  for  days  past  that  he 
is  at  death's  door  (for  Dr.  Poulain  has  given  him  up), 
and  yet,  if  the  old  hunks  had  never  heard  of  me,  he  could 
not  say  less  about  putting  my  name  down  in  his  will.  We 
shall  only  get  our  due  by  takinsj  it,  upon  my  word,  as  an 
honest  woman,  for  as  for  trusting  to  the  next-of-kin! — No 


146  COUSIN  PONS 

fear !  There !  look  you  here,  words  don't  stink ;  it  Is  a 
bad  world!" 

"  That  is  true,"  Elie  Magus  answered  cunningly,  "  that 
is  true;  and  it  is  just  the  like  of  us  that  are  among  the  best," 
he  added,  looking  at  Remonencq. 

"  Just  let  me  be,"  returned  La  Cibot ;  "  I  am  not  speaking 
of  you.  '  Pressing  company  is  always  accepted,'  as  the  old 
actor  said.  I  swear  to  you  that  the  two  gentlemen  already 
owe  me  nearly  three  thousand  francs  ;  the  little  I  have  is 
gone  by  now  in  medicine  and  things  on  their  account;  and 
now  suppose  they  refuse  to  recognize  my  advances?  I  am 
so  stupidly  honest  that  I  did  not  dare  to  say  nothing  to  them 
about  it.  Now,  you  that  are  in  business,  my  dear  sir,  do 
you  advise  me  to  go  to  a  lawyer?  " 

"A  lawyer?"  cried  Remonencq;  "you  know  more  about 
it  than  all  the  lawyers  put  together " 

Just  at  that  moment  a  sound  echoed  in  the  great  staircase, 
a  sound  as  if  some  heavy  body  had  fallen  in  the  dining-room. 

"  Oh,  goodness  me !  "  exclaimed  La  Cibot ;  "  it  seems  to  me 
that  Monsieur  has  just  taken  a  ticket  for  the  ground 
floor." 

She  pushed  her  fellow-conspirators  out  at  the  door,  and 
while  the  pair  descended  the  stairs  with  remarkable  agility, 
she  ran  to  the  dining-room,  and  there  beheld  Pons,  in  his 
shirt,  stretched  out  upon  the  tiles.  He  had  fainted.  She 
lifted  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  feather,  carried  him  back  to 
his  room,  laid  him  in  bed,  burned  feathers  under  his  nose, 
bathed  his  temples  with  eau-de-cologne,  and  at  last  brought 
him  to  consciousness.  When  she  saw  his  eyes  unclose  and 
life  return,  she  stood  over  him,  hands  on  hips. 

"  No  slippers !  In  your  shirt !  That  is  the  way  to  kill 
yourself!  Why  do  you  suspect  me?  If  this  is  to  be  the 
way  of  it,  I  wish  you  good-day,  sir.  Here  have  I  served 
you  these  ten  years,  I  have  spent  money  on  you  till  my 
savings  are  all  gone,  to  spare  trouble  to  that  poor  M. 
Schmucke,  crying  like  a  child  on  the  stairs — and  this  is  my 
reward !  You  have  been  spying  on  me.  God  has  punished 
you !  It  serves  you  right !  Here  am  I  straining  myself 
to  carry  you,  running  the  risk  of  doing  myself  a  mischief 


COUSIN  PONS  147 

that  I  shall  feel  all  my  days.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  and  the 
door  left  open  too " 

"  You  were  talking  with  someone.     Who  was  it?  " 

"  Here  are  notions  !  "  cried  La  Cibot.  "  What  next !  Am 
I  your  bond-slave?  Am  I  to  give  account  of  myself  to  you? 
Do  you  know  that  if  you  bother  me  like  this,  I  shall  clear  out ! 
You  shall  take  a  nurse." 

Frightened  by  this  threat,  Pons  unwittingly  allowed  La 
Cibot  to  see  the  extent  of  the  power  of  her  sword  of  Damocles. 

"  It  is  my  illness  !  "  he  pleaded  piteously. 

"  It  is  as  you  please,"  La  Cibot  answered  roughly. 

She  went.  Pons,  confused,  remorseful,  admiring  his  nurse's 
scolding  devotion,  reproached  himself  for  his  behavior.  The 
fall  on  the  paved  floor  of  the  dining-room  had  shaken  and 
bruised  him,  and  aggravated  his  illness,  but  Pons  was  scarcely 
conscious  of  his  physical  sufferings. 

La  Cibot  met  Schmucke  on  the  staircase. 

"  Come  here,  sir,"  she  said.  *'  There  is  bad  news,  there 
is !  M.  Pons  is  going  off  his  head !  Just  tliink  of  it ! 
he  got  up  with  nothing  on,  he  came  after  me — and  down  he 
came  full-length.  Ask  him  why — he  knows  nothing  about  it. 
He  is  in  a  bad  way.  I  did  nothing  to  provoke  such  violence, 
unless,  perhaps,  I  waked  up  ideas  by  talking  to  him  of  his 
early  amours.  Who  knows  men?  Old  libertines  that  they 
all  are.  I  ought  not  to  have  shown  him  my  arms  when  his 
eyes  were  glittering  like  carbuckles." 

Schmucke  listened.  Mme.  Cibot  might  have  been  talking 
Hebrew  for  anything  that  he  understood. 

"  I  have  given  myself  a  wrench  that  I  shall  feel  all  my 
days,"  added  she,  making  as  though  she  were  in  great  pain. 
(Her  amis  did,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  ache  a  little,  and  the 
muscular  fatigue  suggested  an  idea,  which  she  proceeded 
to  turn  to  profit. )  "So  stupid  I  am.  When  I  saw  him 
lying  there  on  the  floor,  I  just  took  him  up  in  my  arms  as 
if  he  had  been  a  child,  and  carried  him  back  to  bed,  I  did. 
And  I  strained  myself,  I  can  feel  it  now.  Ah !  how  it  hurts  ! — 
I  am  going  downstairs.  Look  after  our  patient.  I  will  send 
Cibot  for  Dr.  Poulain.  I  had  rather  die  outright  than  be 
crippled." 


148  COUSIN  PONS 

La  Cibot  crawled  downstairs,  clinging  to  the  banisters,  and 
writhing  and  groaning  so  piteously  that  the  tenants,  in  alarm, 
came  out  upon  their  landings.  Schmucke  supported  the  suf- 
fering creature,  and  told  the  story  of  La  Cibot's  devotion, 
the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks  as  he  spoke.  Before  very 
long  the  whole  house,  the  whole  neighborhood  indeed,  had 
heard  of  Mme.  Cibot's  heroism ;  she  had  given  herself  a 
dangerous  strain,  it  was  said ;  with  lifting  one  of  the  "  nut- 
crackers." 

Schmucke  meanwhile  went  to  Pons's  bedside  with  the  tale. 
Their  factotum  was  in  a  frightful  state.  "  What  shall  we 
do  without  her?"  they  said,  as  they  looked  at  each  other; 
but  Pons  was  so  plainly  the  worse  for  his  escapade,  that 
Schmucke  did  not  dare  to  scold  him. 

"  Confounded  pric-a-prac !  I  would  sooner  purn  dem  dan 
loose  mein  friend !  "  he  cried,  when  Pons  told  him  of  the 
cause  of  the  accident.  "  To  susbect  Montame  Zipod,  dot 
lend  us  her  safings  !     It  is  not  goot ;  but  it  is  der  illness " 

"  Ah !  what  an  illness !  I  am  not  the  same  man,  I  can 
feel  it,"  said  Pons.  "  My  dear  Schmucke,  if  only  you  did 
not  suffer  through  me !  " 

"  Scold  me,"  Schmucke  answered,  "  und  leaf  Montame 
Zipod  in  beace." 

As  for  Mme.  Cibot,  she  soon  recovered  in  Dr.  Poulain's 
hands ;  and  her  restoration,  bordering  on  the  miraculous, 
shed  additional  luster  on  her  name  and  fame  in  the  Marais. 
Pons  attributed  the  success  to  the  excellent  constitution  of 
the  patient,  who  resumed  her  ministrations  seven  days  later, 
to  the  great  satisfaction  of  her  two  gentlemen.  Her  in- 
fluence in  their  household  and  her  tyranny  were  increased  a 
hundredfold  by  the  accident.  In  the  course  of  a  week,  the 
two  nutcrackers  ran  into  debt;  Mme.  Cibot  paid  the  out- 
standing amounts,  and  took  the  opportunity  to  obtain  from 
Schmucke  (how  easily!)  a  receipt  for  two  thousand  francs, 
which  she  had  lent,  she  said,  to  the  friends. 

"  Oh,  what  a  doctor  M.  Poulain  is !  "  cried  La  Cibot,  for 
Pons's  benefit.  "  He  will  bring  you  through,  my  dear  sir, 
for  he  pulled  me  out  of  my  coffin !  Cibot,  poor  man,  thought 
I  was  dead.     .     .     .     Well,  Dr.  Poulain  will  have  told  you 


COUSIN  PONS  140 

that  while  I  was  in  bed  I  thought  of  nothing  but  you. 
*  God  above,'  said  I,  '  take  me,  and  let  my  dear  M.  Pons 
Hve ' " 

"  Poor  dear  Mme.  Cibot,  you  all  but  crippled  yourself 
for  me." 

"  Ah !  but  for  Dr.  Poulain  I  should  have  been  put  to  bed 
with  a  shovel  by  now,  as  we  shall  all  be  one  day.  Well, 
what  must  be  must,  as  the  old  actor  said.  One  must  take 
things  philosophically.     How  did  you  get  on  without  me.''" 

"  Schmucke  nursed  me,"  said  the  invalid ;  "  but  our  poor 
money-box  and  our  lessons  have  suffered.  I  do  not  know  how 
he  managed." 

"  Calm  yourself,  Bons,"  exclaimed  Schmucke ;  "  ve  haf  in 
Zipod  ein  panker " 

"  Do  not  speak  of  it,  my  lamb.  You  are  our  children, 
both  of  you,"  cried  La  Cibot.  "  Our  savings  will  be  well 
invested;  you  are  safer  than  the  Bank.  So  long  as  we  have 
a  morsel  of  bread,  half  of  it  is  yours.  It  is  not  worth  men- 
tioning  " 

"  Boor  Montame  Zipod !  "  said  Schmucke,  and  he  went. 

Pons  said  nothing. 

"  Would  you  believe  it,  my  cherub.''  "  said  La  Cibot,  as 
the  sick  man  tossed  uneasily,  "  in  my  agony — for  it  was  a 
near  squeak  for  me — the  thing  that  worried  me  most  was 
the  thought  that  I  must  leave  you  alone,  with  no  one  to  look 
after  you,  and  my  poor  Cibot  without  a  farthing. 
My  savings  are  such  a  trifle,  that  I  only  mention  them  in 
connection  with  my  death  and  Cibot,  an  angel  that  he  is ! 
No.  He  nursed  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  queen,  he  did,  and 
cried  like  a  calf  over  me !  .  .  .  But  I  counted  on  you, 
upon  my  word.  I  said  to  him,  '  There,  Cibot !  my  gentlemen 
will  not  let  you  starve '  " 

Pons  made  no  replj'^  to  this  thrust  ad  test  amentum;  but 
as  the  portress  waited  for  him  to  say  something — "  I  shall 
recommend  you  to  M.  Schmucke,"  he  said  at  last. 

■"  Ah ! "  cried  La  Cibot,  "  whatever  you  do  will  be  right ; 
I  trust  in  you  and  your  heart.  Let  us  never  talk  of  this 
again ;  you  make  me  feel  ashamed,  my  cherub.  Tliink  of 
getting  better ;  you  will  outlive  us  all  yet." 


150  COUSIN  PONS 

Profound  uneasiness  filled  Mme.  Cibot's  mind.  She  cast 
about  for  some  way  of  making  the  sick  man  understand  that 
she  expected  a  legacy.  That  evening,  when  Schmucke  was 
eating  his  dinner  as  usual  by  Pons's  bedside,  she  went  out, 
hoping  to  find  Dr.  Poulain  at  home. 

Dr.  Poulain  lived  in  the  Rue  d'Orleans  in  a  small  ground 
floor  establishment,  consisting  of  a  lobby,  a  sitting-room, 
and  two  bedrooms.  A  closet,  opening  into  the  lobby  and  the 
bedroom,  had  been  turned  into  a  study  for  the  doctor.  The 
kitchen,  the  servant's  bedroom,  and  a  small  cellar  were  situ- 
ated in  a  wing  of  the  house,  a  huge  pile  built  in  the  time 
of  the  Empire,  on  the  site  of  an  old  mansion  of  which  the 
garden  still  remained,  though  it  had  been  divided  among  the 
three  ground-floor  tenants. 

Nothing  had  been  changed  in  the  doctor's  house  since  it 
was  built.  Paint  and  paper  and  ceilings  were  all  redolent 
of  the  Empire.  The  grimy  deposits  of  forty  years  lay 
thick  on  walls  and  ceilings,  on  paper  and  paint  and  mirrors 
and  gilding.  And  yet,  this  little  establishment,  in  the 
depths  of  the  Marais,  paid  a  rent  of  a  thousand  francs. 

Mme.  Poulain,  the  doctor's  mother,  aged  sixty-seven,  was 
ending  her  days  in  the  second  bedroom.  She  worked  for  a 
breeches-maker,  stitching  men's  leggings,  breeches,  belts,  and 
braces,  anything,  in  fact,  that  is  made  in  a  way  of  business 
which  has  somewhat  fallen  off  of  late  years.  Her  whole  time 
was  spent  in  keeping  her  son's  house  and  superintending  the 
one  servant ;  she  never  went  abroad,  and  took  the  air  in  the 
little  garden  entered  through  the  glass  door  of  the  sitting- 
room.  Twenty  years  previously,  when  her  husband  died, 
she  had  sold  his  business  to  his  best  workman,  who  gave  his 
master's  widow  work  enough  to  earn  a  daily  wage  of  thirty 
sous.  She  had  made  every  sacrifice  to  educate  her  only  son. 
At  all  costs,  he  should  occupy  a  higher  station  than  his 
father  before  him ;  and  now  she  was  proud  of  her  ^Escula- 
pius,  she  believed  in  him,  and  sacrificed  everything  to  him 
as  before.  She  was  happy  to  take  care  of  him,  to  work  and 
put  by  a  little  money,  and  dream  of  nothing  but  his  welfare, 
and  love  him  with  an  intelligent  love  of  which  every  mother 
is   not   capable.     For  instance,   Mme.   Poulain   remembered 


COUSIN  PONS  151 

that  she  had  been  a  working  girl.  She  would  not  injure  her 
son's  prospects ;  he  should  not  be  shamed  by  his  mother 
(for  the  good  woman's  grammar  was  something  of  the  same 
kind  as  Mme.  Cibot's)  ;  and  for  this  reason  she  kept  in  the 
background,  and  went  to  her  room  of  her  own  accord  if  any 
distinguished  patient  came  to  consult  the  doctor,  or  if  some 
old  schoolfellow  or  fellow-student  chanced  to  call.  Dr. 
Poulain  had  never  had  occasion  to  blush  for  the  mother  whom 
he  revered ;  and  this  sublime  love  of  hers  more  than  atoned 
for  a  defective  education. 

The  breeches-maker's  business  sold  for  about  twenty  thou- 
sand francs,  and  the  widow  invested  the  money  in  the  Funds 
in  1820.  The  income  of  eleven  hundred  francs  per  annum 
derived  from  this  source  was,  at  one  time,  her  whole  fortune. 
For  many  a  year  the  neighbors  used  to  see  the  doctor's  linen 
hanging  out  to  dry  upon  a  clothes-line  in  the  garden,  and 
the  servant  and  Mme.  Poulain  thriftily  washed  everything  at 
home ;  a  piece  of  domestic  economy  which  did  not  a  little  to 
injure  the  doctor's  practice,  for  it  was  thought  that  if  he 
was  so  poor,  it  must  be  through  his  own  fault.  Her  eleven 
hundred  francs  scarcely  did  more  than  pay  the  rent.  Dur- 
ing those  early  days,  Mme.  Poulain,  good,  stout,  little  old 
woman,  was  the  breadwinner,  and  the  poor  household  lived 
upon  her  earnings.  After  twelve  years  of  perseverance  upon 
a  rough  and  stony  road,  Dr.  Poulain  at  last  was  making  an 
income  of  three  thousand  francs,  and  Mme.  Poulain  had  an 
income  of  about  five  thousand  francs  at  her  disposal.  Five 
thousand  francs  for  those  who  know  Paris  means  a  bare 
subsistence. 

The  sitting-room,  where  patients  waited  for  an  Interview, 
was  shabbily  furnished.  There  was  the  inevitable  mahogany 
sofa  covered  with  yellow-flowered  Utrecht  velvet,  four  easy- 
chairs,  a  tea-table,  a  console,  and  half  a  dozen  chairs,  all  the 
property  of  the  deceased  breeches-maker,  and  chosen  by  him. 
A  lyre-shaped  clock  between  two  Egyptian  candlesticks  still 
preserved  its  glass  shade  intact.  You  asked  yourself  how 
the  yellow  chintz  window-curtains,  covered  with  red  flowers, 
had  contrived  to  hang  together  for  so  long;  for  evidently 
they  had  come  from  the  Jouy  factory,  and  Oberkampf  re- 


152  COUSIN  PONS 

ceived  the  Emperor's  congratulations  upon  similar  hideous 
productions  of  the  cotton  industry  in  1809. 

The  doctor's  consulting-room  was  fitted  up  in  the  same 
style,  with  household  stuff  from  the  paternal  chamber.  It 
looked  stiff,  poverty-stricken,  and  bare.  What  patient  could 
put  faith  in  the  skill  of  an  unknown  doctor  who  could  not 
even  furnish  his  house?  And  this  in  a  time  when  advertising 
is  all-powerful;  when  we  gild  the  gas-lamps  in  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde  to  console  the  poor  man  for  his  poverty  by  re- 
minding him  that  he  is  rich  as  a  citizen. 

The  antechamber  did  duty  as  a  dining-room.  The  servant 
sat  at  her  sewing  there  whenever  she  was  not  busy  in  the 
kitchen  or  keeping  the  doctor's  mother  company.  From  the 
dingy  short  curtains  in  the  windows  you  could  have  guessed 
at  the  shabby  thrift  behind  them  without  setting  foot  in 
the  dreary  place.  What  could  those  wall-cupboards  contain 
but  stale  scraps  of  food,  chipped  earthenware,  corks  used  over 
and  over  again  indefinitely,  soiled  table-linen,  odds  and  ends 
that  could  descend  but  one  step  lower  into  the  dust-heap, 
and  all  the  squalid  necessities  of  a  pinched  household  in  Paris  ? 

In  these  days,  when  the  five-franc  piece  is  always  lurking 
in  our  thoughts  and  intruding  itself  into  our  speech,  Dr. 
Poulain,  aged  thirty-three,  was  still  a  bachelor.  Heaven 
had  bestowed  on  him  a  mother  with  no  connections.  In  ten 
years  he  had  not  met  with  the  shghtest  pretext  for  a  romance 
in  his  professional  career ;  his  practice  lay  among  clerks  and 
small  manufacturers,  people  in  his  own  sphere  of  life,  with 
homes  very  much  like  his  own.  His  richer  patients  were 
butchers,  bakers,  and  the  more  substantial  tradespeople  of 
the  neighborhood.  These,  for  the  most  part,  attributed 
their  recovery  to  Nature,  as  an  excuse  for  paying  for  the 
services  of  a  medical  man,  who  came  on  foot,  at  the  rate  of 
two  francs  per  visit.  In  his  profession,  a  carriage  is  more 
necessary  than  medical  skill. 

A  humdrum  monotonous  life  tells  in  the  end  upon  the 
most  adventurous  spirit.  A  man  fashions  himself  to  his  lot, 
he  accepts  a  commonplace  existence;  and  Dr.  Poulain,  after 
ten  years  of  his  practice,  continued  his  labors  of  Sisyphus 
without  the  despair  that  made  early  days  so  bitter.     And 


COUSIN  PONS  153 

yet — ^like  every  soul  In  Paris — ^he  cherished  a  dream.  Remo- 
nencq  was  happy  in  his  dream ;  La  Cibot  had  a  dream  of  her 
own ;  and  Dr.  Poulain  too  dreamed.  Some  day  he  would 
be  called  in  to  attend  a  rich  and  influential  patient,  would 
eff^ect  a  positive  cure,  and  the  patient  would  procure  a  post 
for  him;  he  would  be  head  surgeon  to  a  hospital,  medical 
officer  of  a  prison  or  police-court,  or  doctor  to  the  boulevard 
theaters.  He  had  come  by  his  present  appointment  as  doctor 
to  the  Mairie  in  this  very  way.  La  Cibot  had  called  him  in 
when  the  landlord  of  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Normandie  fell 
ill ;  he  had  treated  the  case  with  complete  success ;  M. 
Plllerault,  the  patient,  took  an  interest  In  the  young  doctor, 
called  to  thank  him,  and  saw  his  carefully  hidden  poverty. 
Count  Poplnot,  the  cabinet  minister,  had  married  M.  Pille- 
rault's  grand-niece,  and  greatly  respected  her  uncle ;  of  him 
therefore,  M.  Plllerault  had  asked  for  the  post,  which  Poulain 
had  now  held  for  two  years.  That  appointment  and  its 
meager  salary  came  just  in  time  to  prevent  a  desperate  step; 
Poulain  was  thinking  of  emigration ;  and  for  a  Frenchman, 
it  is  a  kind  of  death  to  leave  France. 

Dr.  Poulain  went,  you  may  be  sure,  to  thank  Count 
Poplnot ;  but  as  Count  Popinot's  family  physician  was  the 
celebrated  Horace  Bianchon,  It  was  pretty  clear  that  his 
chances  of  gaining  a  footing  in  that  house  were  something 
of  the  slenderest.  The  poor  doctor  had  fondly  hoped  for 
the  patronage  of  a  powerful  cabinet  minister,  one  of  the 
twelve  or  fifteen  cards  which  a  cunning  hand  has  been 
shuflling  for  sixteen  years  on  the  green  baize  of  the  council 
table,  and  now  he  dropped  back  again  Into  his  Marals,  his 
old  groping  life  among  the  poor  and  the  small  tradespeople, 
with  the  privilege  of  Issuing  certificates  of  death  for  a  yearly 
stipend  of  twelve  hundred  francs. 

Dr.  Poulain  had  distinguished  himself  to  some  extent  as 
a  house-student ;  he  was  a  prudent  practitioner,  and  not  with- 
out experience.  His  deaths  caused  no  scandal ;  he  had  plenty 
of  opportunities  of  studying  all  kinds  of  complaints  in  anima 
vili.  Judge,  therefore,  of  the  spleen  that  he  nourished !  The 
expression  of  his  countenance,  lengthy  and  not  too  cheerful 
to   begin   with,    at   times   was    positively    appalling.      Set    a 


154»  COUSIN  PONS 

Tartuffe's  all-devouring  eyes,  and  the  sour  humor  of  an 
Alceste  in  a  sallow  parchment  visage,  and  try  to  imagine 
for  yourself  the  gait,  bearing,  and  expression  of  a  man 
who  thought  himself  as  good  a  doctor  as  the  illustrious 
Bianchon,  and  felt  that  he  was  held  down  in  his  narrow  lot 
by  an  iron  hand.  He  could  not  help  comparing  his  receipts 
(ten  francs  a  day  if  he  was  fortunate)  with  Bianchon's  five 
or  six  hundred. 

Are  the  hatreds  and  jealousies  of  democracy  incompre- 
hensible after  this.''  Ambitious  and  continually  thwarted, 
he  could  not  reproach  himself.  He  had  once  already  tried 
his  fortune  by  inventing  a  purgative  pill,  something  like 
Morrison's,  and  intrusted  the  business  operations  to  an  old 
hospital  chum,  a  house-student,  who  afterwards  took  a  retail 
drug  business ;  but,  unluckily,  the  druggist,  smitten  with  the 
charms  of  a  ballet-dancer  of  the  Ambigu-Comique,  found 
himself  at  length  in  the  bankruptcy  court ;  and  as  the  patent 
had  been  taken  out  in  his  name,  his  partner  was  literally 
without  a  remedy,  and  the  important  discovery  enriched  the 
purchaser  of  the  business.  The  sometime  house-student  set 
sail  for  Mexico,  that  land  of  gold,  taking  poor  Poulain's 
little  savings  with  him;  and,  to  add  insult  to  injury,  the 
opera-dancer  treated  him  as  an  extortioner  when  he  applied 
to  her  for  his  money. 

Not  a  single  rich  patient  had  come  to  him  since  he  had 
the  luck  to  cure  old  M.  Pillerault.  Poulain  made  his  rounds 
on  foot,  scouring  the  Marais  like  a  lean  cat,  and  obtained 
from  two  to  forty  sous  out  of  a  score  of  visits.  The  paying 
patient  was  a  phenomenon  about  as  rare  as  that  anomalous 
fowl  known  as  a  "  white  blackbird "  in  all  sublunary 
regions. 

The  briefless  barrister,  the  doctor  without  a  patient,  are 
pre-eminently  the  two  types  of  a  decorous  despair  peculiar 
to  this  city  of  Paris ;  it  is  mute,  dull  despair  in  human  form, 
dressed  in  a  black  coat  and  trousers  with  shining  seams  that 
recall  the  zinc  on  an  attic  roof,  a  glistening  satin  waistcoat, 
a  hat  preserved  like  a  relic,  a  pair  of  old  gloves,  and  a 
cotton  shirt.  The  man  is  the  incarnation  of  a  melancholy 
poem,  somber  as  the  secrets  of  the  Conciergerie.     Other  kinds 


COUSIN  PONS  155 

of  poverty,  the  poverty  of  the  artist — actor,  painter,  musi- 
cian, or  poet — are  relieved  and  lightened  by  the  artist's 
joviality,  the  reckless  gayety  of  the  Bohemian  border  country 
— the  first  stage  of  the  journey  to  the  Thebaid  of  genius. 
But  these  two  black-coated  professions  that  go  afoot  through 
the  street  are  brought  continually  in  contact  with  disease 
and  dishonor ;  they  see  nothing  of  human  nature  but  its  sores  ; 
in  the  forlorn  first  stages  and  beginnings  of  their  career  they 
eye  competitors  suspiciously  and  defiantly ;  concentrated  dis- 
like and  ambition  flash  out  in  glances  like  the  breaking  forth 
of  hidden  flames.  Let  two  schoolfellows  meet  after  twenty 
years,  the  rich  man  will  avoid  the  poor ;  he  does  not  recognize 
him,  he  is  afraid  even  to  glance  into  the  gulf  which  Fate  has 
set  between  him  and  the  friend  of  other  years.  The  one 
has  been  borne  through  life  on  the  mettlesome  steed  called 
Fortune,  or  wafted  on  the  golden  clouds  of  success ;  the 
other  has  been  making  his  way  in  underground  Paris  through 
the  sewers,  and  bears  the  marks  of  his  career  upon  him. 
How  many  a  chum  of  old  days  turned  aside  at  the  sight 
of  the  doctor's  greatcoat  and  waistcoat ! 

With  this  explanation,  it  should  be  easy  to  understand 
how  Dr.  Poulain  came  to  lend  himself  so  readily  to  the  farce 
of  La  Cibot's  illness  and  recovery.  Greed  of  every  kind, 
ambition  of  every  nature,  is  not  easy  to  hide.  The  doctor 
examined  his  patient,  found  that  every  organ  was  sound 
and  healthy,  admired  the  regularity  of  her  pulse  and  the 
perfect  ease  of  her  movements ;  and  as  she  continued  to  moan 
aloud,  he  saw  that  for  some  reason  she  found  it  convenient 
to  lie  at  Death's  door.  The  speedy  cure  of  a  serious  imag- 
inary disease  was  sure  to  cause  a  sensation  in  the  neighbor- 
hood; the  doctor  would  be  talked  about.  He  made  up  his 
mind  at  once.  He  talked  of  rupture  and  of  taking  it  in 
time,  and  thought  even  worse  of  the  case  than  La  Cibot 
herself.  The  portress  was  plied  with  various  remedies,  and 
finally  underwent  a  sham  operation,  crowned  with  complete 
success.  Poulain  repaired  to  the  Arsenal  Library,  looked 
out  a  grotesque  case  in  some  of  Desplein's  records  of  ex- 
traordinary cures,  and  fitted  the  details  to  Mme.  Cibot, 
modestly  attributing  the  success  of  the  treatment  to  the  great 


156  COUSIN  PONS 

surgeon,  In  whose  steps  (he  said)  he  walked.  Such  is  the 
impudence  of  beginners  in  Paris.  Everything  is  made  to 
serve  as  a  ladder  by  which  to  climb  upon  the  scene ;  and  as 
everything,  even  the  rungs  of  a  ladder,  will  wear  out  in  time, 
the  new  members  of  every  profession  are  at  a  loss  to  find  the 
right  sort  of  wood  of  which  to  make  steps  for  themselves. 

There  are  moments  when  the  Parisian  is  not  propitious. 
He  grows  tired  of  raising  pedestals,  pouts  like  a  spoiled  child, 
and  will  have  no  more  idols ;  or,  to  state  it  more  accurately, 
Paris  cannot  always  find  a  proper  object  for  infatuation. 
Now  and  then  the  vein  of  genius  gives  out,  and  at  such  times 
the  Parisian  may  turn  supercilious ;  he  is  not  always  willing 
to  bow  down  and  gild  mediocrity. 

Mme.  Cibot,  entering  in  her  usual  unceremonious  fashion, 
found  the  doctor  and  his  mother  at  table,  before  a  bowl  of 
lamb's  lettuce,  the  cheapest  of  all  salad-stuffs.  The  dessert 
consisted  of  a  thin  wedge  of  Brie  cheese  flanked  by  a  plate 
of  specked  foreign  apples  and  a  dish  of  mixed  dry  fruits, 
known  as  quatre-mendiants,  in  which  the  raisin-stalks  were 
abundantly  conspicuous. 

"  You  can  stay,  mother,"  said  the  doctor,  laying  a  hand 
on  Mme.  Poulain's  arm ;  "  this  is  Mme.  Cibot,  of  whom  I 
have  told  you." 

"  My  respects  to  you,  Madame,  and  my  duty  to  you,  sir," 
sa,id  La  Cibot,  taking  the  chair  which  the  doctor  offered. 
"Ah!  is  this  your  mother,  sir.?  She  is  very  happy  to  have 
a  son  who  has  such  talent ;  he  saved  my  hfe,  Madame,  brought 
me  back  from  the  depths." 

The  widow,  hearing  Mme.  Cibot  praise  her  son  in  this 
way,  thought  her  a  delightful  woman. 

"I  have  just  come  to  tell  you  that,  between  ourselves, 
poor  M.  Pons  is  doing  very  badly,  sir,  and  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you  about  him " 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  sitting-room,"  interrupted  the 
doctor,  and  with  a  significant  gesture  he  indicated  the 
servant. 

Li  the  sitting-room  La  Cibot  explained  her  position  with 
regard  to  the  pair  of  nutcrackers  at  very  considerable  length. 


COUSIN  PONS  15T 

She  repeated  the  history  of  her  loan  with  added  embellish- 
ments, and  gave  a  full  account  of  the  immense  services  ren- 
dered during  the  past  ten  years  to  MM.  Pons  and  Schmucke. 
The  two  old  men,  to  aU  appearance,  could  not  exist  without 
her  motherly  care.  She  posed  as  an  angel ;  she  told  so  many 
lies,  one  after  another,  watering  them  with  her  tears,  that 
old  Mme.  Poulain  was  quite  touched. 

"  You  understand,  my  dear  sir,"  she  concluded,  "  that  I 
really  ought  to  know  how  far  I  can  depend  on  M.  Pons's 
intentions,  supposing  that  he  should  die ;  not  that  I  want 
him  to  die,  for  looking  after  those  two  innocents  is  my  life, 
Madame,  you  see ;  still,  when  one  of  them  is  gone  I  shall  look 
after  the  other.  For  my  own  part,  I  was  built  by  Nature 
to  rival  mothers.  Without  nobody  to  care  for,  nobody  to 
take  for  a  child,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do.  ...  So 
if  M.  Poulain  only  would,  he  might  do  me  a  service  for  which 
I  should  be  very  grateful ;  and  that  is,  to  say  a  word  to 
M.  Pons  for  me.  Goodness  me !  an  annuity  of  a  thousand 
francs,  is  that  too  much,  I  ask  you?  .  .  .  To  M. 
Schmucke  it  will  be  so  much  gained. — Our  dear  patient  said 
that  he  should  recommend  me  to  the  German,  poor  man ;  it 
is  his  idea,  no  doubt,  that  M.  Schmucke  should  be  his  heir. 
But  what  is  a  man  that  cannot  put  two  ideas  together  in 
French?  And  besides,  he  would  be  quite  capable  of  going 
back  to  Germany,  he  will  be  in  such  despair  over  his  friend's 
death " 

The  doctor  grew  grave.  "  My  dear  Mme.  Cibot,"  he 
said,  "  this  sort  of  thing  does  not  in  the  least  concern  a 
doctor.  I  should  not  be  allowed  to  exercise  my  profession 
if  it  was  known  that  I  interfered  in  the  matter  of  my  patients' 
testamentary  dispositions.  The  law  forbids  a  doctor  to  re- 
ceive a  legacy  from  a  patient " 

"  A  stupid  law !  What  is  to  hinder  me  from  dividing 
my  legacy  with  you?  "  La  Cibot  said  immediately. 

"  I  will  go  farther,"  said  the  doctor ;  "  my  professional 
conscience  will  not  permit  me  to  speak  to  M.  Pons  of  his 
death.  In  the  first  place,  he  is  not  so  dangerously  ill  that 
there  is  any  need  to  speak  of  it;  and  in  the  second  such 
talk  coming  from  me  might  give  a  shock  to  the  system  that 


158  COUSIN  PONS 

would  do  him  real  harm,  and  then  his  illness  might  terminate 
fatally " 

"  /  don't  put  on  gloves  to  tell  him  to  get  his  affairs  in 
order,"  cried  Mme.  Cibot,  "  and  he  is  none  the  worse  for  that. 
He  is  used  to  it.     There  is  nothing  to  fear." 

"  Not  a  word  more  about  it,  my  dear  Mme.  Cibot !  These 
things  are  not  within  a  doctor's  province;  it  is  a  notary's 
business " 

"  But,  my  dear  M.  Poulain,  suppose  that  M.  Pons  of 
his  own  accord  should  ask  you  how  he  is,  and  whether  he 
had  better  make  his  arrangements ;  then,  would  you  refuse 
to  tell  him  that  if  you  want  to  get  better  it  is  an  excellent 
plan  to  set  everything  in  order?  Then  you  might  just  slip 
in  a  little  word  for  me " 

"  Oh,  if  he  talks  of  making  his  will,  I  certainly  shall  not 
dissuade  him,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Very  well,  that  is  settled.  I  came  to  thank  you  for 
your  care  of  me,"  she  added,  as  she  slipped  a  folded  paper 
containing  three  gold  coins  into  the  doctor's  hands.  "  It 
is  all  I  can  do  at  the  moment.  Ah !  my  dear  M.  Poulain, 
if  I  were  rich,  you  should  be  rich,  you  that  are  the  image 
of  Providence  on  earth. — Madame,  you  have  an  angel  for 
a  son." 

La  Cibot  rose  to  her  feet,  Mme.  Poulain  bowed  amiably, 
and  the  doctor  went  to  the  door  with  the  visitor.  Just  then 
a  sudden,  lurid  gleam  of  light  flashed  across  the  mind  of 
this  Lady  Macbeth  of  the  streets.  She  saw  clearly  that  the 
doctor  was  her  accomplice — he  had  taken  the  fee  for  a  sham 
illness. 

"  M.  Poulain,"  she  began,  "  how  can  you  refuse  to  say  a 
word  or  two  to  save  me  from  want,  when  you  helped  me  in 
the  affair  of  my  accident.''  " 

The  doctor  felt  that  the  Devil  had  him  by  a  hair,  as  the 
saying  is ;  he  felt,  too,  that  the  hair  was  being  twisted  round 
the  pitiless  red  claw.  Startled  and  afraid  lest  he  should  sell 
his  honesty  for  such  a  trifle,  he  answered  the  diabolical 
suggestion  by  another  no  less  diabolical. 

"  Listen,  my  dear  Mme.  Cibot,"  he  said,  as  he  drew 
her   into    his    consulting-room.      "  I   will    now   pay    a    debt 


COUSIN  PONS  159 

of  gratitude  that  I  owe  you  for  my  appointment  to  the 
Mairie " 

"  We  go  shares  ?  "  she  asked  briskly. 

"In  what?" 

"  In  the  legacy." 

"  You  do  not  know  me,"  replied  Dr.  Poulain,  drawing 
himself  up  like  Valerius  Publicola.  "  Let  us  have  no  more 
of  that.  I  have  a  friend,  an  old  schoolfellow  of  mine,  a 
very  intelligent  young  fellow;  and  we  are  so  much  the  more 
intimate,  because  our  lives  have  fallen  out  very  much  in  the 
same  way.  He  was  studying  law  while  I  was  studying  medi- 
cine; and  when  I  was  a  house-student,  he  was  engrossing 
deeds  in  Maitre  Couture's  office.  His  father  was  a  shoe- 
maker, and  mine  was  a  breeches-maker ;  he  has  not  found 
anyone  to  take  much  interest  in  his  career,  nor  has  he  any 
capital ;  for,  after  all,  capital  is  only  to  be  had  from 
sympathizers.  He  could  only  afford  to  buy  a  provincial 
connection — at  Mantes — and  so  little  do  provincials  under- 
stand the  Parisian  intellect,  that  they  set  all  sorts  of  intrigues 
on  foot  against  him." 

"  The  wretches  !  "  cried  La  Cibot. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor.  "  They  combined  against  him 
to  such  purpose,  that  they  forced  him  to  sell  his  connection 
by  misrepresenting  something  that  he  had  done ;  the  attorney 
for  the  crown  interfered,  he  belonged  to  the  place,  and  sided 
with  his  fellow-townsmen.  My  friend's  name  is  Fraisier.  He 
is  lodged  as  I  am,  and  he  is  even  leaner  and  more  threadbare. 
He  took  refuge  in  our  arrondissement,  and  is  reduced  to  ap- 
pear for  clients  in  the  police-court  or  before  the  magistrate. 
He  lives  in  the  Rue  de  la  Perle  close  by.  Go  to  number  9, 
third  floor,  and  you  will  see  his  name  on  the  door  on  the 
landing,  painted  in  gilt  letters  on  a  small  square  of  red 
leather.  Fraisier  makes  a  special  point  of  disputes  among 
the  porters,  workmen,  and  poor  folk  in  the  arrondissement, 
and  his  charges  are  low.  He  is  an  honest  man ;  for  I  need 
not  tell  you  that  if  he  had  been  a  scamp,  he  would  be  keep- 
ing his  carriage  by  now.  I  will  call  and  see  my  friend 
Fraisier  this  evening.  Go  to  him  early  to-morrow ;  he  knows 
M.  Louchard,  the  bailiff;  M.   Tabareau,  the   clerk  of   the 


160  COUSIN  PONS 

court;  and  the  justice  of  the  peace,  M.  Vitel;  and  M. 
Trognon,  the  notary.  He  is  even  now  looked  upon  as  one 
of  the  best  men  of  business  in  the  Quarter.  If  he  takes 
charge  of  your  interests,  if  you  can  secure  him  as  M.  Pons's 
adviser,  you  will  have  a  second  self  in  him,  you  see.  But  do 
not  make  dishonorable  proposals  to  him,  as  you  did  just 
now  to  me;  he  has  a  head  on  his  shoulders,  you  will  under- 
stand each  other.  And  as  for  acknowledging  his  services,  I 
will  be  your  intermediary — — " 

Mme.  Cibot  looked  askance  at  the  doctor. 

"  Is  that  the  lawyer  who  helped  Mme.  Florimond  the  haber- 
dasher in  the  Rue  Vieille-du-Temple  out  of  a  fix  in  that 
matter  of  her  friend's  legacy.''  " 

"  The  very  same." 

"  Wasn't  it  a  shame  that  she  did  not  marry  him  after 
he  had  gained  two  thousand  francs  a  year  for  her.?  "  ex- 
claimed La  Cibot.  "  And  she  thought  to  clear  off  scores 
by  making  him  a  present  of  a  dozen  shirts  and  a  couple  of 
dozen  pocket-handkerchiefs ;  an  outfit,  in  short." 

"  My  dear  Mme.  Cibot,  that  outfit  cost  a  thousand  francs, 
and  Fraisier  was  just  setting  up  for  himself  in  the  Quarter, 
and  wanted  the  things  very  badly.  And  what  was  more, 
she  paid  the  bill  without  asking  any  questions.  That  afi^air 
brought  him  clients,  and  now  he  is  very  busy;  but  in  my 
line  a  practice  brings " 

"  It  is  only  the  righteous  that  suflPer  here  below,"  said 
La  Cibot.     "  Well,  M.  Poulain,  good-day  and  thank  you." 

And  herewith  begins  the  tragedy,  or,  if  you  like  to  have 
it  so,  a  terrible  comedy — the  death  of  an  old  bachelor  de- 
livered over  by  circumstances  too  strong  for  him  to  the 
rapacity  and  greed  that  gathered  about  his  bed.  And  other 
forces  came  to  the  support  of  rapacity  and  greed;  there 
was  the  picture  collector's  mania,  that  most  intense  of  all 
passions ;  there  was  the  cupidity  of  the  Sleur  Fraisier,  whom 
you  shall  presently  behold  in  his  den,  a  sight  to  make  you 
shudder;  and  lastly,  there  was  the  Auvergnat  thirsting  for 
money,  ready  for  anything — even  for  a  crime — that  should 
bring  him  the  capital  he  wanted.  The  first  part  of  the  story 
serves  in  some  sort  as  a  prelude  to  this  comedy  in  which 


COUSIN  PONS  161 

all  the  actors  who  have  hitherto  occupied  the  stage  will 
reappear. 

The  degradation  of  a  word  is  one  of  those  curious  freaks 
of  manners  upon  which  whole  volumes  of  explanation  might 
be  written.  Write  to  an  attorney  and  address  him  as 
"  Lawyer  So-and-so,"  and  you  insult  him  as  surely  as  you 
would  insult  a  wholesale  colonial  produce  merchant  by  ad- 
dressing your  letter  to  "  Mr.  So-and-So,  Grocer."  There 
are  plenty  of  men  of  the  world  who  ought  to  be  aware,  since 
the  knowledge  of  such  subtle  distinctions  is  their  province, 
that  you  cannot  insult  a  French  writer  more  cruelly  than  by 
calling  him  un  homme  de  lettres — a  literary  man.  The  word 
monsieur  is  a  capital  example  of  the  life  and  death  of  words. 
Abbreviated  from  monseigneur,  once  so  considerable  a  title, 
and  even  now,  in  the  form  of  sire,  reserved  for  emperors  and 
kings,  it  is  bestowed  indifferently  upon  all  and  sundry ; 
while  the  twin-word  messire,  which  is  nothing  but  its  double 
and  equivalent,  if  by  any  chance  it  slips  into  a  certificate 
of  burial,  produces  an  outcry  in  the  Republican  papers. 

Magistrates,  councilors,  jurisconsults,  judges,  barristers, 
officers  for  the  Crown,  bailiffs,  attorneys,  clerks  of  the  court, 
procurators,  solicitors,  and  agents  of  various  kinds,  represent 
or  misrepresent  Justice.  The  "  lawyer "  and  the  bailiff's 
men  (commonly  called  "  the  brokers  ")  are  the  two  lowest 
rungs  of  the  ladder.  Now,  the  bailiflp's  man  is  an  outsider, 
an  adventitious  minister  of  justice,  appearing  to  see  that 
judgment  is  executed;  he  is,  in  fact,  a  kind  of  inferior  ex- 
ecutioner employed  by  the  county  court.  But  the  word 
"lawyer"  (homme  de  loi)  is  a  depreciatory  term  applied 
to  the  legal  profession.  Consuming  professional  jealousy 
finds  similar  disparaging  epithets  for  fellow-travelers  in 
every  walk  in  life,  and  every  calling  has  its  special  insult. 
The  scorn  flung  into  the  words  homm£  de  loi,  homme  de 
lettres,  is  wanting  in  the  plural  form,  which  may  be  used 
without  offense;  but  in  Paris  every  profession,  learned  or 
unlearned,  has  its  omega,  the  individual  who  brings  it  down 
to  the  level  of  the  lowest  class ;  and  the  written  law  has  its 
connecting  link  with  the  custom  right  of  the  streets.  There 
are  districts  where  the  pettifogging  man  of  business,  known 


162  COUSIN  PONS 

as  Lawyer  So-and-so,  is  still  to  be  found.  M.  Fraisier  was 
to  the  member  of  the  Incorporated  Law  Society  as  the  money- 
lender of  the  Halles,  offering  small  loans  for  a  short  period 
at  an  exorbitant  interest,  is  to  the  great  capitalist. 

Working  people,  strange  to  say,  are  as  shy  of  officials 
as  of  fashionable  restaurants  ;  they  take  advice  from  irregular 
sources  as  they  turn  into  a  little  wineshop  to  drink.  Each 
rank  in  life  finds  its  own  level,  and  there  abides.  None  but 
a  chosen  few  care  to  climb  the  heights,  few  can  feel  at  ease 
in  the  presence  of  their  betters,  or  take  their  place  among 
them,  like  a  Beaumarchais  letting  fall  the  watch  of  the  great 
lord  who  tried  to  humiliate  him.  And  if  there  are  few  who 
can  even  rise  to  a  higher  social  level,  those  among  them  who 
can  throw  off  their  swaddUng-clothes  are  rare  and  great 
exceptions. 

At  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  Mme.  Cibot  stood  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Perle ;  she  was  making  a  survey  of  the  abode  of  her 
future  adviser.  Lawyer  Fraisier.  The  house  was  one  of  the 
old-fashioned  kind  formerly  inhabited  by  small  tradespeople 
and  citizens  with  small  means.  A  cabinetmaker's  shop  occu- 
pied almost  the  whole  of  the  ground  floor,  as  well  as  the  little 
yard  behind,  which  was  covered  with  his  workshops  and  ware- 
houses ;  the  small  remaining  space  being  taken  up  by  the 
porter's  lodge  and  the  passage  entry  in  the  middle.  The 
staircase  walls  were  half  rotten  with  damp  and  covered  with 
saltpeter  to  such  a  degree  that  the  house  seemed  to  be  stricken 
with  leprosy. 

Mme.  Cibot  went  straight  to  the  porter's  lodge,  and  there 
encountered  one  of  the  fraternity,  a  shoemaker,  his  wife,  and 
two  small  children,  all  housed  in  a  room  ten  feet  square, 
lighted  from  the  yard  at  the  back.  La  Cibot  mentioned  her 
profession,  named  herself,  and  spoke  of  her  house  in  the  Rue 
de  Normandie,  and  the  two  women  were  on  cordial  terms  at 
once.  After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  spent  in  gossip  while  the 
shoemaker's  wife  made  breakfast  ready  for  her  husband  and 
the  children,  Mme.  Cibot  turned  the  conversation  to  the  sub- 
ject of  the  lodgers,  and  spoke  of  the  lawyer. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  him  on  business,"  she  said.     "  One 


COUSIN  PONS  163 

of  his  friends,  Dr.  Poulain,  recommended  me  to  him.  Do 
you  know  Dr.  Poulain.''  " 

"  I  should  think  I  do,"  said  the  lady  of  the  Rue  de  la 
Perle.  "  He  saved  my  little  girl's  life  when  she  had  the 
croup." 

"  He  saved  my  life  too,  Madame.  What  sort  of  man  is 
this  M.  Fraisier.P  " 

"  He  is  the  sort  of  man,  my  dear  lady,  out  of  whom  it 
is  very  difficult  to  get  the  postage-money  at  the  end  of  the 
month." 

To  a  person  of  La  Cibot's  intelligence  this  was  enough. 

"  One  may  be  poor  and  honest,"  observed  she. 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  so,"  returned  Fraisier's  portress.  "  We 
are  not  rolling  in  coppers,  let  alone  gold  or  silver ;  but  we 
have  not  a  farthing  belonging  to  anybody  else." 

This  sort  of  talk  sounded  familiar  to  La  Cibot. 

"  In  short,  one  can  trust  him,  child,  eh.''  " 

"  Lord !  when  M.  Fraisier  means  well  by  anyone,  there  is 
not  his  like,  so  I  have  heard  Mme.  Florimond  say." 

"  And  why  didn't  she  marry  him  when  she  owed  her  for- 
tune to  him.!'  "  La  Cibot  asked  quickly.  "  It  is  something 
for  a  little  haberdasher,  kept  by  an  old  man,  to  be  a  barris- 
ter's wife " 

"  Why ?  "  asked  the  portress,  bringing  Mme.  Cibot 

out    into    the   passage.     "  Why ?     You   are   going  up 

to  see  him,  are  you  not,  Madame.? — Very  well,  when  you  are 
in  his  office  you  will  know  why." 

From  the  state  of  the  staircase,  lighted  by  sash-windows 
on  the  side  of  the  yard,  it  was  pretty  evident  that  the  inmates 
of  the  house,  with  the  exception  of  the  landlord  and  M. 
Fraisier  himself,  were  all  workmen.  There  were  traces  of  vari- 
ous crafts  in  the  deposit  of  mud  upon  the  steps — brass-filings, 
broken  buttons,  scraps  of  gauze,  and  esparto  grass  lay 
scattered  about.  The  walls  of  the  upper  stories  were  cov- 
ered with  apprentices'  ribald  scrawls  and  caricatures.  The 
portress's  last  remark  had  roused  La  Cibot's  curiosity ;  she 
decided,  not  unnaturally,  that  she  would  consult  Dr.  Poulain's 
friend ;  but  as  for  employing  him,  that  must  depend  upon 
her  impressions. 


164,  COUSIN  PONS 

"  I  sometimes  wonder  how  Mme.  Sauvage  can  stop  in 
his  service,"  said  the  portress,  bj  way  of  comment;  she 
was  following  in  Mme.  Cibot's  wake.  "  I  will  come  up  with 
you,  Madame,"  she  added ;  "  I  am  taking  the  milk  and  the 
newspaper  up  to  my  landlord." 

Arrived  on  the  second  floor  above  the  entresol.  La  Cibot 
beheld  a  door  of  the  most  villainous  description.  The  doubt- 
ful red  paint  was  coated  for  seven  or  eight  inches  round  the 
keyhole  with  a  filthy  glaze,  a  grimy  deposit  from  which 
the  modern  house-decorator  endeavors  to  protect  the  doors 
of  more  elegant  apartments  by  glass  "  finger-plates."  A 
grating,  almost  stopped  up  with  some  compound  similar 
to  the  deposit  with  which  a  restaurant-keeper  gives  an  air 
of  cellar-bound  antiquity  to  a  merely  middle-aged  bottle, 
only  served  to  heighten  the  general  resemblance  to  a  prison 
door;  a  resemblance  further  heightened  by  the  trefoil-shaped 
ironwork,  the  formidable  hinges,  the  clumsy  nail-heads.  A 
miser,  or  a  pamphleteer  at  strife  with  the  world  at  large, 
must  surely  have  invented  these  fortifications.  A  leaden 
sink,  which  received  the  waste  water  of  the  household,  con- 
tributed its  quota  to  the  fetid  atmosphere  of  the  staircase, 
and  the  ceiling  was  covered  with  fantastic  arabesques  traced 
by  candle-smoke — such  arabesques !  On  pulling  a  greasy 
acorn  tassel  attached  to  the  bell-rope,  a  little  bell  jangled 
feebly  somewhere  within,  complaining  of  the  fissure  in  its 
metal  sides. 

Every  detail  was  in  keeping  with  the  general  dismal  effect. 
La  Cibot  heard  a  heavy  footstep,  and  the  asthmatic  wheezing 
of  a  virago  within,  and  Mme.  Sauvage  presently  showed  her- 
self. Adrien  Brauwer  might  have  painted  just  such  a  hag 
for  his  picture  of  Witches  Starting  for  the  Sabbath;  a  stout, 
unwholesome  slattern,  five  feet  six  inches  in  height,  with  a 
grenadier  countenance  and  a  beard  which  far  surpasssed  La 
Cibot's  own ;  she  wore  a  cheap,  hideously  ugly  cotton  gown, 
a  bandanna  handkerchief  knotted  over  hair  which  she  still 
continued  to  put  in  curl-papers  (using  for  that  purpose  the 
printed  circulars  which  her  master  received),  and  a  huge 
pair  of  gold  earrings  like  cart-wheels  in  her  ears.  This 
female  Cerberus  carried  a  battered  skillet  in  one  hand,  and 


COUSIN  PONS  166 

opening  the  door,  set  free  an  imprisoned  odor  of  scorched 
milk — a  nauseous  and  penetrating  smell,  that  lost  itself  at 
once,  however,  among  the  fumes  outside. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  missus  ? "  demanded  Mme. 
Sauvage,  and  with  a  truculent  air  she  looked  La  Cibot 
over;  evidently  she  was  of  the  opinion  that  the  visitor  was 
too  well  dressed,  and  her  eyes  looked  the  more  murderous 
because  they  were  naturally  bloodshot. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  M.  Fraisier ;  his  friend.  Dr.  Poulain, 
sent  me." 

"  Oh !  come  in,  missus,"  said  La  Sauvage,  groAvn  very 
amiable  all  of  a  sudden,  which  proves  that  she  was  prepared 
for  this  morning  visit. 

With  a  sweeping  courtesy,  the  stalwart  woman  flung  open 
the  door  of  a  private  office,  which  looked  upon  the  street, 
and  discovered  the  ex-attorney  of  Mantes. 

The  room  was  a  complete  picture  of  a  third-rate  solicitor's 
office ;  with  the  stained  wooden  cases,  the  letter-files  so  old 
that  they  had  grown  beards  (in  ecclesiastical  language), 
the  red  tape  dangling  limp  and  dejected,  the  pasteboard 
boxes  covered  with  traces  of  the  gambols  of  mice,  the  dirty 
floor,  the  ceiling  tawny  with  smoke.  A  frugal  allowance 
of  wood  was  smoldering  on  a  couple  of  fire-dogs  on  the 
hearth.  And  on  the  chimney-piece  above  stood  a  foggy 
mirror  and  a  modern  clock  with  an  inlaid  wooden  case; 
Fraisier  had  picked  it  up  at  an  execution  sale,  together  with 
the  tawdry  imitation  rococo  candlesticks,  with  the  zinc  be- 
neath showing  through  the  lacquer  in  several  places. 

M.  Fraisier  was  small,  thin,  and  unwholesome-looking;  his 
red  face,  covered  with  an  eruption,  told  of  tainted  blood; 
and  he  had,  moreover,  a  trick  of  continually  scratching  his 
right  arm.  A  wig  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  head  displayed 
a  brick-colored  cranium  of  ominous  conformation.  This 
person  rose  from  a  cane-seated  armchair,  in  which  he  sat 
on  a  green  leather  cushion,  assumed  an  agreeable  expression, 
and  brought  forward  a  chair. 

"Mme.  Cibot,  I  believe?"  queried  he,  in  dulcet  tones. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  portress.  She  had  lost  her 
habitual  assurance. 


166  COUSIN  PONS 

Something  in  the  tones  of  a  voice  which  strongly  resembled 
the  sounds  of  the  Httle  door-bell,  something  in  a  glance  even 
sharper  than  the  sharp  green  eyes  of  her  future  legal  ad- 
viser, scared  Mme.  Cibot.  Fraisier's  presence  so  pervaded 
the  room,  that  anyone  might  have  thought  there  was  pesti- 
lence in  the  air ;  and  in  a  flash  Mme.  Cibot  understood  why 
Mme.  Florimond  had  not  become  Mme.  Fraisier. 

"  Poulain  told  me  about  you,  my  dear  Madame,"  said  the 
lawyer,  in  the  unnatural  fashion  commonly  described  by  the 
words  "  mincing  tones  " ;  tones  sharp,  thin,  and  grating  as 
verjuice,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts. 

Arrived  at  this  point,  he  tried  to  draw  the  skirts  of  his 
dressing-gown  over  a  pair  of  angular  knees  encased  in 
threadbare  felt.  The  robe  was  an  ancient  printed  cotton 
garment,  lined  with  wadding  which  took  the  liberty  of  pro- 
truding itself  through  various  slits  in  it  here  and  there;  the 
weight  of  this  lining  had  pulled  the  skirts  aside,  disclosing 
a  dingy-hued  flannel  waistcoat  beneath.  With  something 
of  a  coxcomb's  manner,  Fraisier  fastened  this  refractory 
article  of  dress,  tightening  the  girdle  to  define  his  reedy 
figure ;  then  with  a  blow  of  the  tongs,  he  effected  a  recon- 
ciliation between  two  burning  brands  that  had  long  avoided 
one  another,  like  brothers  after  a  family  quarrel.  A  sudden 
bright  idea  struck  him,  and  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  Mme.  Sauvage !  "  called  he. 

"Well?" 

"  I  am  not  at  home  to  anybody ! " 

"  Eh !  bless  your  life,  there's  no  need  to  say  that ! " 

"  She  is  my  old  nurse,"  the  lawyer  said  in  some  confusion. 

"  And  she  has  not  recovered  her  figure  yet,"  remarked 
the  heroine  of  the  Halles. 

Fraisier  laughed,  and  drew  the  bolt  lest  his  housekeeper 
should  interrupt  Mme.  Cibot's  confidences. 

"  Well,  Madame,  explain  your  business,"  said  he,  making 
another  effort  to  drape  himself  in  the  dressing-gown.  "  Any- 
one recommended  to  me  by  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the  world 
may  count  upon  me — I  may  say — absolutely." 

For  half  an  hour  Mme.  Cibot  talked,  and  the  man  of 
law  made  no  interruption  of  any  sort;  his  face  wore  the 


COUSIN  PONS  167 

expression  of  curious  Interest  with  which  a  young  soldier 
listens  to  a  pensioner  of  "  The  Old  Guard."  Fraisier's  silence 
and  acquiescence,  the  rapt  attention  with  which  he  appeared 
to  listen  to  a  torrent  of  gossip  similar  to  the  samples  pre- 
viously given,  dispelled  some  of  the  prejudices  inspired  in 
La  Cibot's  mind  by  his  squalid  surroundings.  The  little 
lawyer  with  the  black-speckled  green  eyes  was  in  reality  mak- 
ing a  study  of  his  client.  When  at  length  she  came  to  a 
stand  and  looked  to  him  to  speak,  he  was  seized  with  a  fit 
of  the  complaint  known  as  a  "  churchyard  cough,"  and  had 
recourse  to  an  earthenware  basin  half  full  of  herb  tea,  which 
he  drained. 

"  But  for  Poulain,  my  dear  Madame,  I  should  have  been 
dead  before  this,"  said  Fraisier,  by  way  of  answer  to  the 
portress's  looks  of  motherly  compassion ;  "  but  he  will  bring 
me  round,  he  says " 

As  all  the  client's  confidences  appeared  to  have  slipped 
from  the  memory  of  her  legal  adviser,  she  began  to  cast 
about  for  a  way  of  taking  leave  of  a  man  so  apparently 
near  death. 

"  In  an  affair  of  this  kind,  Madame,"  continued  the  attor- 
ney from  Mantes,  suddenly  returning  to  business,  "  there  are 
two  things  which  it  is  most  important  to  know.  In  the 
first  place,  whether  the  property  is  sufficient  to  be  worth 
troubling  about ;  and  in  the  second,  who  the  next-of-kin 
may  be;  for  if  the  property  is  the  booty,  the  next-of-kin  is 
the  enemy." 

La  Cibot  immediately  began  to  talk  of  Remonencq  and 
Elie  Magus,  and  said  that  the  shrewd  couple  valued  the 
pictures  at  six  hundred  thousand  francs. 

"  Would  they  take  them  themselves  at  that  price  ?  "  In- 
quired the  lawyer.  "  You  see,  Madame,  that  men  of  business 
are  shy  of  pictures.  A  picture  may  mean  a  piece  of  canvas 
worth  a  couple  of  francs  or  a  painting  worth  two  hundred 
thousand.  Now  paintings  worth  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  are  usually  well  known;  and  what  errors  in  judgment 
people  make  in  estimating  even  the  most  famous  pictures 
of  all !  There  was  once  a  great  capitalist  whose  collection 
was  admired,  visited,  and  engraved — actually  engraved !     He 


168  COUSIN  PONS 

was  supposed  to  have  spent  millions  of  francs  on  it.  He 
died,  as  men  must ;  and — well,  his  genuine  pictures  did  not 
fetch  more  than  two  hundred  thousand  francs!  You  must 
let  me  see  these  gentlemen. — Now  for  the  next-of-kin,"  and 
Fraisier  again  relapsed  into  his  attitude  of  listener. 

When  President  Camusot's  name  came  up,  he  nodded  with 
a  grimace  which  riveted  Mme.  Cibot's  attention.  She  tried 
to  read  the  forehead  and  the  villainous  face,  and  found  what 
is  called  in  business  a  "  wooden  head." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  sir,"  repeated  La  Cibot.  "  Yes,  my  M. 
Pons  is  own  cousin  to  President  Camusot  de  Marville ;  he  tells 
me  that  ten  times  a  day.  M.  Camusot  the  silk  mercer  was 
married  twice " 

"  He  that  has  just  been  nominated  for  a  peer  of 
France .?  " 

"  — ^And  his  first  wife  was  a  Mile.  Pons,  M.  Pons's  first 
cousin." 

"  Then  they  are  first  cousins  once  removed " 

"  They  are  '  not  cousins.'     They  have  quarreled." 

It  may  be  remembered  that  before  M.  Camusot  de  Mar- 
ville came  to  Paris,  he  was  President  of  the  Tribunal  of 
Mantes  for  five  years;  and  not  only  was  his  name  still 
remembered  there,  but  he  had  kept  up  a  correspondence 
with  Mantes.  Camusot's  immediate  successor,  the  judge 
with  whom  he  had  been  most  intimate  during  his  term  of 
office,  was  still  President  of  the  Tribunal,  and  consequently 
knew  all  about  Fraisier. 

"  Do  you  know,  Madame,"  Fraisier  said,  when  at  last  the 
red  sluices  of  La  Cibot's  torrent  tongue  were  closed,  "  do 
you  know  that  your  principal  enemy  will  be  a  man  who  can 
send  you  to  the  scaffold.''  " 

The  portress  started  on  her  chair,  making  a  sudden  spring 
like  a  jack-in-the-box. 

"  Calm  yourself,  dear  Madame,"  continued  Fraisier. 
"  You  may  not  have  known  the  name  of  the  President  of 
the  Chamber  of  Indictments  at  the  Court  of  Appeal  in 
Paris ;  but  you  ought  to  have  known  that  M.  Pons  must 
have  an  heir-at-law.  M.  le  President  de  Marville  is  your 
invalid's  sole  heir;  but  as  he  is  a   collateral  in  the  third 


COUSIN  PONS  169 

degree,  M.  Pons  is  entitled  by  law  to  leave  Ms  fortune 
as  he  pleases.  You  are  not  aware  either  that,  six  weeks 
ago  at  least,  M.  le  President's  daughter  married  the  eldest 
son  of  M.  le  Comte  Popinot,  peer  of  France,  once  Minister 
of  Agriculture,  and  President  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  one 
of  the  most  influential  politicians  of  the  day.  President  de 
Marville  is  even  more  formidable  through  this  marriage  than 
in  his  own  quality  of  head  of  the  Court  of  Assize." 

At  that  word  La  Cibot  shuddered. 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  he  who  sends  you  there,"  continued  Fraisier. 
"  Ah !  my  dear  Madame,  you  little  know  what  a  red  robe 
means !  It  is  bad  enough  to  have  a  plain  black  gown  against 
you!  You  see  me  here,  ruined,  bald,  broken  in  health — all 
because,  unwittingly,  I  crossed  a  mere  attorney  for  the 
crown  in  the  provinces.  I  was  forced  to  sell  my  connection 
at  a  loss,  and  very  lucky  I  was  to  come  off  with  the  loss 
of  my  money.  If  I  had  tried  to  stand  out,  my  professional 
position  would  have  gone  as  well. 

"  One  thing  more  you  do  not  know,"  he  continued,  "  and 
this  it  is.  If  you  had  only  to  do  with  President  Camusot 
himself,  it  would  be  nothing ;  but  he  has  a  wife,  mind  you ! — 
and  if  you  ever  find  yourself  face  to  face  with  that  wife, 
you  will  shake  in  your  shoes  as  if  you  were  on  the  first  step 
of  the  scaffold,  your  hair  will  stand  on  end.  The  Presidente 
is  so  vindictive  that  she  would  spend  ten  years  over  setting 
a  trap  to  kill  you.  She  sets  that  husband  of  hers  spinning 
like  a  top.  Through  her  a  charming  young  fellow  com- 
mitted suicide  at  the  Conciergerie.  A  count  was  accused  of 
forgery — she  made  his  character  as  white  as  snow.  She  all 
but  drove  a  person  of  the  highest  quahty  from  the  Court  of 
Charles  X.  Finally,  she  displaced  the  Attorney-General,  M. 
de  Granville " 

"  That  lived  in  the  Rue  Vieillt^du-Temple,  at  the  corner 
of  the  Rue  Saint-Fran9ois?  " 

"  The  very  same.  They  say  that  she  means  to  make 
her  husband  Home  Secretary,  and  I  do  not  know  that  she 
will  not  gain  her  end. — If  she  were  to  take  it  into  her  head 
to  send  us  both  to  the  Criminal  Court  first  and  the  hulks 
afterwards — I  should  apply  for  a  passport  and  set  sail  for 


170  COUSIN  PONS 

America,  though  I  am  as  innocent  as  a  newborn  babe.  So 
well  I  know  what  justice  means.  Now,  see  here,  my  dear 
Mme.  Cibot ;  to  marry  her  only  daughter  to  young  Vicomte 
Popinot  (heir  to  M.  Pillerault,  your  landlord,  it  is  said) — 
to  make  that  match,  she  stripped  herself  of  her  whole  fortune, 
so  much  so  that  the  President  and  his  wife  have  nothing  at 
this  moment  except  his  official  salary.  Can  you  suppose, 
my  dear  Madame,  that  under  the  circumstances  Mme.  la 
Presidente  will  let  M.  Pons's  property  go  out  of  the  family 
without  a  word.'' — ^Why,  I  would  sooner  face  guns  loaded 
with  grape-shot  than  have  such  a  woman  for  my  enemy " 

"  But  they  have  quarreled,''  put  in  La  Cibot. 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  asked  Fraisier.  "It 
is  one  reason  the  more  for  fearing  her.  To  kill  a  relative 
of  whom  you  are  tired,  is  something;  but  to  inherit  his 
property  afterwards — that  is  a  real  pleasure !  " 

"  But  the  old  gentleman  has  a  horror  of  his  relatives. 
He  says  over  and  over  again  that  these  people — M.  Cardot, 
M.  Berthier,  and  the  rest  of  them  (I  can  remember  their 
names) — have   crushed   him   as   a   tumbril   cart   crushes   an 


"  Have  you  a  mind  to  be  crushed  too  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear !  oh  dear ! "  cried  La  Cibot.  "  Ah !  Ma'am 
Fontaine  was  right  when  she  said  that  I  should  meet  with 
difficulties :  still,  she  said  that  I  should  succeed " 

"  Listen,  my  dear  Mme.  Cibot. — As  for  making  some  thirty 
thousand  francs  out  of  this  business — that  is  possible;  but 
for  the  whole  of  the  property,  it  is  useless  to  think  of  it. 
We  talked  over  your  case  yesterday  evening.  Dr.  Poulain 
and  I " 

La  Cibot  started  again. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  matter.?  " 

"  But  if  you  knew  about  the  affair,  why  did  you  let  me 
chatter  away  like  a  magpie?" 

"  Mme.  Cibot,  I  knew  all  about  your  business,  but  I  knew 
nothing  of  Mme.  Cibot.  So  many  clients,  so  many  char- 
acters  " 

Mme.  Cibot  gave  her  legal  adviser  a  queer  look  at  this ; 
all  her  suspicions  gleamed  in  her  eyes.     Fraisier  saw  this. 


COUSIN  PONS  171 

*'  I  resume,"  he  continued.  "  So  our  friend  Poulain  was 
once  called  in  bj  you  to  attend  old  M.  Pillerault,  the  Countess 
Popinot's  great-uncle ;  that  is  one  of  your  claims  to  my 
devotion.  Poulain  goes  to  see  your  landlord  (mark  this!) 
once  a  fortnight ;  he  learned  all  these  particulars  from  him. 
M.  Pillerault  was  present  at  his  grand-nephew's  wedding — 
for  he  is  an  uncle  with  money  to  leave ;  he  has  an  income 
of  fifteen  thousand  francs,  though  he  has  lived  like  a  hermit 
for  the  last  five-and-twenty  years,  and  scarcely  spends  a 
thousand  crowns — well,  he  told  Poulain  all  about  this 
marriage.  It  seems  that  your  old  musician  was  pre- 
cisely the  cause  of  the  row ;  he  tried  to  disgrace  his  own 
family  by  way  of  revenge. — If  you  only  hear  one  bell,  you 
only  hear  one  sound. — Your  invahd  says  that  he  meant  no 
harm,  but  everybody  thinks  him  a  monster  of " 

"  And  it  would  not  astonish  me  if  he  was !  "  cried  La  Cibot. 
"  Just  imagine  it ! — For  these  ten  years  past  I  have  been 
money  out  of  pocket  for  him,  spending  my  savings  on  him, 
and  he  knows  it,  and  yet  he  will  not  let  me  lie  down  to  sleep 
on  a  legacy ! — No,  sir !  he  will  not.  He  is  obstinate,  a  regular 
mule  he  is. — I  have  talked  to  him  these  ten  days,  and  the  cross- 
grained  cur  won't  stir  no  more  than  a  sign-post.     He  shuts 

his  teeth  and  looks  at  me  like The  most  that  he  would 

say  was  that  he  would  recommend  me  to  M.  Schmucke." 

"  Then  he  means  to  make  his  will  in  favor  of  this 
Schmucke?  " 

"  Everything  will  go  to  him " 

"Listen,  my  dear  Mme.  Cibot:  if  I  am  to  arrive  at  any 
definite  conclusions  and  think  of  a  plan,  I  must  know  M. 
Schmucke.  I  must  see  the  property  and  have  some  talk 
with  this  Jew  of  whom  you  speak;  and  then,  let  me  direct 
you " 

"We  shall  see,  M.  Fraisier." 

"  What  is  this  ?  *  We  shall  see  '  ?  "  repeated  Fraisier, 
speaking  in  the  voice  natural  to  him,  as  he  gave  La  Cibot 
a  viperous  glance.  "  Am  I  your  legal  adviser  or  am  I  not, 
I  say.f*     Let  us  know  exactly  where  we  stand." 

La  Cibot  felt  that  he  read  her  thoughts.  A  cold  chill 
ran  down  her  back. 


172  COUSIN  PONS 

"  I  have  told  you  all  I  know,"  she  said.  She  saw  that 
she  was  at  the  tiger's  mercy. 

*'  We  attorneys  are  accustomed  to  treachery.  Just  think 
carefully  over  your  position ;  it  is  superb. — If  you  follow 
my  advice  point  by  point,  you  will  have  thirty  or  forty 
thousand  francs.  But  there  is  a  reverse  side  to  this  beautiful 
medal.  How  if  the  Presidente  comes  to  hear  that  M.  Pons's 
property  is  worth  a  million  of  francs,  and  that  you  mean 
to  have  a  bite  out  of  it? — for  there  is  always  somebody 
ready  to  take  that  kind  of  errand "  he  added  paren- 
thetically. 

This  remark,  and  the  little  pause  that  came  before  and 
after  it,  sent  another  shudder  through  La  Cibot.  She  thought 
at  once  that  Fraisier  himself  would  probably  undertake  that 
office. 

"  And  then,  my  dear  client,  in  ten  minutes  old  Pillerault 
is  asked  to  dismiss  you,  and  then  on  a  couple  of  hours' 
notice " 

"What  does  that  matter  to  me?"  said  La  Cibot,  rising 
to  her  feet  like  a  Bellona ;  "  I  shall  stay  with  the  gentlemen 
as  their  housekeeper." 

"  And  then,  a  trap  will  be  set  for  you,  and  some  fine 
morning  you  and  your  husband  will  wake  up  in  a  prison 
cell,  to  be  tried  for  your  lives " 

"  /?  "  cried  La  Cibot,  "  I  that  have  not  a  farthing  that 
doesn't  belong  to  me.     .     .     .     I!     .     .     .     I! " 

For  five  minutes  she  held  forth,  and  Fraisier  watched  the 
great  artist  before  him  as  she  executed  a  concerto  of  self- 
praise.  He  was  quite  untouched,  and  even  amused  by  the 
performance.  His  keen  glances  pricked  La  Cibot  like  sti- 
lettos ;  he  chuckled  inwardly,  till  his  shrunken  wig  was 
shaking  with  laughter.  He  was  a  Robespierre  at  an  age 
when  the  Sylla  of  France  was  still  making  couplets. 

"And  how?  And  why?  And  on  what  pretext?"  de- 
manded she,  when  she  came  to  an  end. 

"You  wish  to  know  how  you  may  come  to  the  guillotine?  " 

La  Cibot  turned  pale  as  death  at  the  words ;  the  words 
fell  like  the  knife  upon  her  neck.  She  stared  wildly  at 
Fraisier. 


COUSIN  PONS  17^ 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  dear  child,"  began  Fraisier,  suppress- 
ing his  inward  satisfaction  at  his  client's  discomfiture. 

"I  would  sooner  leave  things  as  they  are "  murmured 

La  Cibot,  and  she  rose  to  go. 

"  Stay,"  Fraisier  said  imperiously.  "  You  ought  to  know 
the  risks  that  you  are  running;  I  am  bound  to  give  you 
the  benefit  of  my  lights. — You  are  dismissed  by  M.  Pillerault, 
we  will  say;  there  is  no  doubt  about  that,  is  there?  You 
enter  the  service  of  these  two  gentlemen.  Very  good !  That 
is  a  declaration  of  war  against  the  Presidente.  You  mean 
to  do  everything  you  can  to  gain  possession  of  the  property, 
and  to  get  a  slice  out  of  it  at  any  rate 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  blaming  you,"  Fraisier  continued,  in  answer 
to  a  gesture  from  his  client.  "  It  is  not  my  place  to  do  so» 
This  is  a  battle,  and  j-ou  will  be  led  on  further  than  you 
think  for.     One  grows  full  of  one's  idea,  one  hits  hard " 

Another  gesture  of  denial.  This  time  La  Cibot  tossed 
her  head. 

"  There,  there,  old  lady,"  said  Fraisier,  with  odious  famil- 
iarity, "  you  will  go  a  very  long  way !  " 

"You  take  me  for  a  thief,  I  suppose?" 

"  Come,  now.  Mamma,  you  hold  a  receipt  in  M.  Schmucke's 
hand  which  did  not  cost  you  much. — Ah!  you  are  in  the 
confessional,  my  lady.  Don't  deceive  your  confessor,  espe- 
cially when  the  confessor  has  the  power  of  reading  your 
thoughts." 

La  Cibot  was  dismayed  by  the  man's  perspicacity;  now 
she  knew  why  he  had  listened  to  her  so  intently. 

"  Very  good,"  continued  he,  "  you  can  admit  at  once 
that  the  Presidente  will  not  allow  you  to  pass  her  in  the 
race  for  the  property. — ^You  will  be  watched  and  spied  upon. 
— You  get  your  name  into  M.  Pons's  will;  nothing  could  be 
better.  But  some  fine  day  the  law  steps  in,  arsenic  is  found 
in  a  glass,  and  you  and  your  husband  are  arrested,  tried, 
and  condemned  for  attempting  the  life  of  the  Sieur  Pons, 
so  as  to  come  by  your  legacy.  I  once  defended  a  poor 
woman  at  Versailles ;  she  was  in  reality  as  innocent  as  you 
would  be  in  such  a  case.  Things  were  as  I  have  told  you, 
and  all  that  I  could  do  was  to  save  her  life.     The  unhappy 


174  COUSIN  PONS 

creature  was  sentenced  to  twenty  years'  penal  servitude. 
She  is  working  out  her  time  now  at  St.  Lazare." 

Mme.  Cibot's  terror  grew  to  the  highest  pitch.  She  grew 
paler  and  paler,  staring  at  the  little,  thin  man  with  the 
green  eyes,  as  some  wretched  Moor,  accused  of  adhering  to 
her  own  religion,  might  gaze  at  the  inquisitor  who  doomed 
her  to  the  stake. 

"  Then  do  you  tell  me,  that  if  I  leave  you  to  act,  and 
put  my  interests  in  your  hands,  I  shall  get  something  with- 
out fear.?  " 

"  I  guarantee  you  thirty  thousand  francs,"  said  Fraisier, 
speaking  like  a  man  sure  of  the  fact. 

"  After  all,  you  know  how  fond  I  am  of  dear  Dr.  Poulain," 
she  began  again  in  her  most  coaxing  tones ;  "  he  told  me 
to  come  to  you,  worthy  man,  and  he  did  not  send  me  here 
to  be  told  that  I  shall  be  guillotined  for  poisoning  someone." 

The  thought  of  the  guillotine  so  moved  her  that  she  burst 
into  tears,  her  nerves  were  shaken,  terror  clutched  at  her 
heart,  she  lost  her  head.  Fraisier  gloated  over  his  triumph. 
When  he  saw  his  client  hesitate,  he  thought  that  he  had  lost 
his  chance ;  he  had  set  himself  to  frighten  and  quell  La  Cibot 
till  she  was  completely  in  his  power,  bound  hand  and  foot. 
She  had  walked  into  his  study  as  a  fly  walks  into  a  spider's 
web ;  there  she  was  doomed  to  remain,  entangled  in  the  toils 
of  the  httle  lawyer  who  meant  to  feed  upon  her.  Out  of 
this  bit  of  business,  indeed,  Fraisier  meant  to  gain  the  living 
of  old  days ;  comfort,  competence,  and  consideration.  He 
and  his  friend  Dr.  Poulain  had  spent  the  whole  previous 
evening  in  a  microscopic  examination  of  the  case ;  they  had 
made  mature  deliberations.  The  doctor  described  Schmucke 
for  his  friend's  benefit,  and  the  alert  pair  had  plumbed  all 
hypotheses  and  scrutinized  all  risks  and  resources, till  Fraisier, 
exultant,  cried  aloud,  "  Both  our  fortunes  lie  in  this !  "  He 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  promise  Poulain  a  hospital,  and  as 
for  himself,  he  meant  to  be  justice  of  the  peace  of  an 
arrondissement. 

To  be  a  justice  of  the  peace!  For  this  man  with  his 
abundant  capacity,  for  this  doctor  of  law  without  a  pair  of 
socks  to  his  name,  the  dream  was  a  hippogriff  so  restive, 


COUSIN  PONS  175 

that  he  thought  of  it  as  a  deputy-advocate  thinks  of  the 
silk  gown,  as  an  Italian  priest  thinks  of  the  tiara.  It  was 
indeed  a  wild  dream! 

M.  Vitel,  the  justice  of  the  peace  before  whom  Fraisier 
pleaded,  was  a  man  of  sixty-nine,  in  failing  health ;  he 
talked  of  retiring  on  a  pension ;  and  Fraisier  used  to  talk 
with  Poulain  of  succeeding  him,  much  as  Poulain  talked 
of  saving  the  life  of  some  rich  heiress  and  marrying  her 
afterwards.  No  one  knows  how  greedily  every  post  in  the 
gift  of  authority  is  sought  after  in  Paris.  Everyone  wants 
to  live  in  Paris.  If  a  stamp  or  tobacco  license  falls  in,  a 
hundred  women  rise  up  as  one  and  stir  all  their  friends  to 
obtain  it.  Any  vacancy  in  the  ranks  of  the  twenty-four 
collectors  of  taxes  sends  a  flood  of  ambitious  folk  surging 
in  upon  the  Chamber  of  Deputies.  Decisions  are  made  in 
committee,  all  appointments  are  made  by  the  Government. 
Now  the  salary  of  a  justice  of  the  peace,  the  lowest  stipend- 
iary magistrate  in  Paris,  is  about  six  thousand  francs.  The 
post  of  registrar  to  the  court  is  worth  a  hundred  thousand 
francs.  Few  places  are  more  coveted  in  the  administration. 
Fraisier,  as  a  justice  of  the  peace,  with  the  head  physician 
of  a  hospital  for  his  friend,  would  make  a  rich  marriage 
himself  and  a  good  match  for  Dr.  Poulain.  Each  would 
lend  a  hand  to  each. 

Night  set  its  leaden  seal  upon  the  plans  made  by  the 
sometime  attorney  of  Mantes,  and  a  formidable  scheme 
sprouted  up,  a  flourishing  scheme,  fertile  in  harvests  of  gain 
and  intrigue.  La  Cibot  was  the  hinge  upon  which  the  whole 
matter  turned ;  and  for  this  reason,  any  rebellion  on  the 
part  of  the  instrument  must  be  at  once  put  down ;  such  action 
on  her  part  was  quite  unexpected ;  but  Fraisier  had  put  forth 
all  the  strength  of  his  rancorous  nature,  and  the  audacious 
portress  lay  trampled  under  his  feet. 

"  Come,  reassure  yourself,  my  dear  Madame,"  he  re- 
marked, holding  out  his  hand.  The  touch  of  the  cold  serpent- 
like skin  made  a  terrible  impression  upon  the  portress.  It 
brought  about  something  like  a  physical  reaction,  which 
checked  her  emotion ;  Mme.  Fontaine's  toad,  Astaroth,  seemed 
to  her  to  be  less  deadly  than  this  poison-sac  that  wore  a 


176  COUSIN  PONS 

sandy  wig  and  spoke  in  tones  like  the  creaking  of  a 
hinge. 

"  Do  not  imagine  that  I  am  frightening  you  to  no  pur- 
pose," Fraisier  continued.  (La  Cibot's  feeling  of  repulsion 
had  not  escaped  him. )  "  The  affairs  which  made  Mme. 
la  Presidente's  dreadful  reputation  are  so  well  known  at  the 
law-courts,  that  you  can  make  inquiries  there  if  you  like. 
The  great  person  who  was  ail  but  sent  into  a  lunatic  asylum 
was  the  Marquis  d'Espard.  The  Marquis  d'Escrignon  was 
saved  from  the  hulks.  The  handsome  young  man  with  wealth 
and  a  great  future  before  him,  who  was  to  have  married 
a  daughter  of  one  of  the  first  families  of  France,  and  hanged 
himself  in  a  cell  of  the  Conciergerie,  was  the  celebrated  Lucien 
de  Rubempre ;  the  affair  made  a  great  deal  of  noise  in  Paris 
at  the  time.  That  was  a  question  of  a  will.  His  mistress, 
the  notorious  Esther,  died  and  left  him  several  millions, 
and  they  accused  the  young  fellow  of  poisoning  her.  He 
was  not  even  in  Paris  at  the  time  of  her  death,  nor  did  he 
so  much  as  know  that  the  woman  had  left  the  money  to 
him ! — One  cannot  well  be  more  innocent  than  that !  Well, 
after  M.  Camusot  examined  him,  he  hanged  himself  in  his 
cell.  Law,  like  medicine,  has  its  victims.  In  the  first  case, 
one  man  suffers  for  the  many,  and  in  the  second,  he  dies 
for  science,"  he  added,  and  an  ugly  smile  stole  over  his  lips. 
"  Well,  I  know  the  risks  myself,  you  see ;  poor  and  obscure 
little  attorney  as  I  am,  the  law  has  been  the  ruin  of  me. 
My  experience  was  dearly  bought — it  is  all  at  your  service." 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  said  La  Cibot ;  "  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  upon  my  word !  .  .  .  I  shall  have  nourished 
ingratitude,  that  is  all!  I  want  nothing  but  my  due;  I 
have  thirty  years  of  honesty  behind  me,  sir.  M.  Pons  says 
that  he  will  recommend  me  to  his  friend  Schmucke;  well  and 
good,  I  shall  end  my  days  in  peace  with  the  German,  good 
man." 

Fraisier  had  overshot  his  mark.  He  had  discouraged  La 
Cibot.  Now  he  was  obliged  to  remove  these  unpleasant  im- 
pressions. 

"  Do  not  let  us  give  up,"  he  said ;  *'  just  go  away  quietly 
home.     Come,  now,  we  will  steer  the  affair  to  a  good  end." 


and- 


COUSIN  PONS  177 

But  what  about  ray  rentes,  what  am  I  to  do  to  get  them, 


And  feel  no  remorse  ?  "  he  interrupted  quickly.  "  Eh ! 
it  is  precisely  for  that  that  men  of  business  were  invented ; 
unless  you  keep  within  the  law,  you  get  nothing.  You  know 
nothing  of  law ;  I  know  a  good  deal.  I  will  see  that  you  keep 
on  the  right  side  of  it,  and  you  can  hold  your  own  in  all 
men's  sight.  As  for  your  conscience,  that  is  your  own 
affair." 

"  Very  well,  tell  me  how  to  do  it,"  returned  La  Cibot, 
curious  and  delighted. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  yet.  I  have  not  looked  at  the  strong 
points  of  the  case  yet ;  I  have  been  busy  with  the  obstacles. 
But  the  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  urge  him  to  make  a  will ; 
you  cannot  go  wrong  over  that ;  and  find  out,  first  of  all, 
how  Pons  means  to  leave  his  fortune;  for  if  you  were  his 
heir " 

"  No,  no ;  he  does  not  like  me.  Ah !  if  I  had  but  known 
the  value  of  his  gimcracks,  and  if  I  had  known  what  I  know 
now  about  his  amours,  I  should  be  easy  in  my  mind  this 
day " 

"  Keep  on,  in  fact,"  broke  in  Fraisier.  "  Dying  folk  have 
queer  fancies,  my  dear  Madame;  they  disappoint  hopes 
many  a  time.  Let  him  make  his  will,  and  then  we  shall  see. 
And  of  all  things,  the  property  must  be  valued.  So  I  must 
see  this  Remonencq  and  the  Jew;  they  will  be  very  useful 
to  us.  Put  entire  confidence  in  me,  I  am  at  your  disposal. 
When  a  client  is  a  friend  to  me,  I  am  his  friend  through 
thick  and  thin.     Friend  or  enemy,  that  is  my  character." 

"Very  well,"  said  La  Cibot,  "I  am  yours  entirely;  and 
as  for  fees,  M.  Poulain " 

"  Let  us  say  nothing  about  that,"  said  Fraisier.  "  Think 
how  you  can  keep  Poulain  at  the  bedside;  he  is  one  of  the 
most  upright  and  conscientious  men  I  know;  and,  you  see, 
we  want  someone  there  whom  we  can  trust.  Poulain  would 
do  better  than  I ;  I  have  lost  my  character." 

"You  look  as  if  you  had,"  said  La  Cibot;  "but,  for  my 
own  part,  I  should  trust  you." 

*'  And  you  would  do  well.     Come  to  see  me  whenever  any- 


178  COUSIN  PONS 

thing  happens,  and — ^there — ^you  are  an  intelligent  woman; 
all  will  go  well." 

"  Good-day,  M.  Fraisier.  I  hope  you  will  recover  your 
health.     Your  servant,  sir." 

Fraisier  went  to  the  door  with  his  client.  But  this  time 
it  was  he,  and  not  La  Cibot,  who  was  struck  with  an  idea 
en  the  threshold. 

"  If  you  could  persuade  M.  Pons  to  call  me  in,  it  would 
be  a  great  step." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  La  Cibot. 

Fraisier  drew  her  back  into  his  sanctum.  "  Look  here, 
old  lady,  I  know  M.  Trognon,  the  notary  of  tlie  quarter, 
very  well.  If  M.  Pons  has  not  a  notary,  mention  M.  Trognon 
to  him.     Make  him  take  M.  Trognon " 

"Right,"  returned  La  Cibot. 

And  as  she  came  out  again  she  heard  the  rustle  of  a  dress 
and  the  sound  of  a  stealthy,  heavy  footstep. 

Out  in  the  street  and  by  herself,  Mme.  Cibot  to  some 
extent  recovered  her  liberty  of  mind  as  she  walked.  Though 
the  influence  of  the  conversation  was  still  upon  her,  and 
she  had  always  stood  in  dread  of  scaffolds,  justice,  and 
judges,  she  took  a  very  natural  resolution,  which  was  to  bring 
about  a  conflict  of  strategy  between  her  and  her  formidable 
legal  adviser. 

"  What  do  I  want  with  other  folk  ?  "  said  she  to  herself. 
"  Let  us  make  a  round  sum,  and  afterwards  I  will  take  all 
that  they  offer  me  to  push  their  interests ;  "  and  this  thought, 
as  will  shortly  be  seen,  hastened  the  poor  old  musician's 
end. 

"  Well,  dear  M.  Schmucke,  and  how  is  our  dear,  adored 
patient.''  "  asked  La  Cibot,  as  she  came  into  the  room. 

"  Fery  pad ;  Bons  haf  peen  vandering  all  der  night." 

"  Then  what  did  he  say?  " 

"  Chust  nonsense.  He  vould  dot  I  haf  all  his  fortune, 
on  kondition  dot  I  sell  nodings. — Den  he  cried !  Boor  mann ! 
It  made  me  ver'  sad." 

"  Never  mind,  honey,"  returned  the  portress.  "  I  have 
kept  you  waiting  for  your  breakfast ;  it  is  nine  o'clock  and 


COUSIN  PONS  179 

past ;  but  don't  scold  me.  I  have  business  on  hand,  you  see, 
business  of  yours.  Here  are  we  without  any  money,  and  I 
have  been  out  to  get  some." 

"  Vere  ?  "  asked  Schmucke. 

"  Of  my  uncle." 

"  Onkel.?  " 

"  Up  the  spout." 

"Shpout.?" 

"  Oh !  the  dear  man !  how  simple  he  is !  No,  you  are  a 
saint,  a  love,  an  archbishop  of  innocence,  a  man  that  ought 
to  be  stuffed,  as  the  old  actor  said.  What!  you  have  lived 
in  Paris  for  twenty-nine  years ;  you  saw  the  Revolution  of 
July,  you  did,  and  you  have  never  so  much  as  heard  tell  of 
a  pawnbroker — a  man  that  lends  you  money  on  your  things  ? 
— I  have  been  pawning  our  silver  spoons  and  forks,  eight  of 
them,  thread  pattern.  Pooh,  Cibot  can  eat  his  victuals  with 
German  silver ;  it  is  quite  the  fashion  now,  they  say.  It  is 
not  worth  while  to  say  anything  to  our  angel  there;  it  would 
upset  him  and  make  him  yellower  than  before,  and  he  is 
quite  cross  enough  as  it  is.  Let  us  get  him  round  again 
first,  and  afterwards  we  shall  see.  What  must  be  must ;  and 
we  must  take  things  as  we  find  them,  eh?  " 

"  Goot  voman !  nople  heart !  "  cried  poor  Schmucke,  with  a 
great  tenderness  in  his  face.  He  took  La  Cibot's  hand  and 
clasped  it  to  his  breast.  When  he  looked  up,  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes. 

"  There,  that  will  do,  Papa  Schmucke ;  how  funny  you 
are !  This  is  too  bad.  I'm  an  old  daughter  of  the  people — 
my  heart  is  in  my  hand.  I  have  something  here,  you  see, 
like  you  have,  heart  of  gold  that  you  are,"  she  added,  slapping 
her  chest. 

"  Baba  Schmucke !  "  continued  the  musician.  "  No.  To 
know  de  tepths  of  sorrow,  to  cry  mit  tears  of  blood,  to  mount 
up  in  der  hefn — dat  is  mein  lot !  I  shall  not  lif  after 
Bons " 

"  Gracious !  I  am  sure  you  won't,  you  are  kilHng  your- 
self.— Listen,  pet!" 

"Bet.?" 

*'  Very  well,  my  sonny " 


180  COUSIN  PONS 

"Zonny?" 

"  My  lamb,  then,  if  you  like  it  better." 

"  It  is  not  more  clear." 

"  Oh,  well,  let  me  take  care  of  you  and  tell  you  what 
to  do ;  for  if  you  go  on  like  this,  I  shall  have  both  of  you 
laid  up  on  my  hands,  you  see.  To  my  little  way  of  thinking, 
we  must  do  the  work  between  us.  You  cannot  go  about  Paris 
to  give  lessons,  for  it  tires  you,  and  then  you  are  not  fit  to 
do  anything  afterwards,  and  somebody  must  sit  up  of  a 
night  with  M.  Pons,  now  that  he  is  getting  worse  and  worse. 
I  will  run  round  to-day  to  all  your  pupils  and  tell  them  that 
you  are  ill;  is  it  not  so?  And  then  you  can  spend  the  nights 
with  our  lamb,  and  sleep  of  a  morning  from  five  o'clock  till, 
let  us  say,  two  in  the  afternoon.  I  myself  will  take  the  day, 
the  most  tiring  part,  for  there  is  your  breakfast  and  dinner 
to  get  ready,  and  the  bed  to  make,  and  the  things  to  change, 
and  the  doses  of  medicine  to  give.  I  could  not  hold  out  for 
another  ten  days  at  this  rate.  It  is  a  month  and  more  al- 
ready since  I  have  been  like  this.  What  would  become  of 
you  if  I  were  to  fall  ill.'*  And  you  yourself,  it  makes  one 
shudder  to  see  you ;  just  look  at  yourself,  after  sitting  up 
with  him  last  night !  " 

She  drew  Schmucke  to  the  glass,  and  Schmucke  thought 
that  there  was  a  great  change. 

"  So,  if  you  are  of  my  mind,  I'll  have  your  breakfast  ready 
in  a  jiffy.  Then  you  will  look  after  our  poor  dear  again 
till  two  o'clock.  Let  me  have  a  list  of  your  people,  and  I 
will  soon  arrange  it.  You  will  be  free  for  a  fortnight.  You 
can  go  to  bed  when  I  come  in,  and  sleep  till  night." 

So  prudent  did  the  proposition  seem,  that  Schmucke  then 
and  there  agreed  to  it. 

"  Not  a  word  to  M.  Pons ;  he  would  think  it  was  all  over 
with  him,  you  know,  if  we  were  to  tell  him  in  this  way  that 
his  engagement  at  the  theater  and  his  lessons  are  put  off.  He 
would  be  thinking  that  he  should  not  find  his  pupils  again, 
poor  gentleman — stuff  and  nonsense !  M.  Poulain  says  that 
we  shall  save  our  Benjamin  if  we  keep  him  as  quiet  as 
possible." 

"  Ach !  fery  goot !     Pring  up  der  preakf ast ;  I  shall  make 


COUSIN  PONS  181 

der  bett,  and  gif  you  die  attresses ! — You  are  right ;  it  vould 
pe  too  much  for  me." 

An  hour  later  La  Cibot,  in  her  Sunday  clothes,  departed  in 
great  state,  to  the  no  small  astonishment  of  the  Remonencqs ; 
she  promised  herself  that  she  would  support  the  character  of 
confidential  servant  of  the  pair  of  nutcrackers,  in  the  board- 
ing-schools and  private  families  in  which  they  gave  music- 
lessons. 

It  is  needless  to  repeat  all  the  gossip  in  which  La  Cibot 
indulged  on  her  round.  The  members  of  every  family,  the 
head-mistress  of  every  boarding-school,  were  treated  to  a 
variation  upon  the  theme  of  Pons's  illness.  A  single  scene, 
which  took  place  in  the  Illustrious  Gaudissart's  private  room, 
will  give  sufficient  idea  of  the  rest.  La  Cibot  met  with 
unheard-of  difficulties,  but  she  succeeded  in  penetrating  at 
last  to  the  presence.  Kings  and  cabinet  ministers  are  less 
difficult  of  access  than  the  manager  of  a  theater  in  Paris ; 
nor  is  it  hard  to  understand  why  such  prodigious  barriers 
are  raised  between  them  and  ordinary  mortals :  a  king  has 
only  to  defend  himself  from  ambition;  the  manager  of  a 
theater  has  reason  to  dread  the  wounded  vanity  of  actors 
and  authors. 

La  Cibot,  however,  struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  the 
portress,  and  traversed  all  distances  in  a  brief  space.  There 
is  a  sort  of  freemasonry  among  the  porter  tribe,  and,  indeed, 
among  the  members  of  every  profession ;  for  each  calling  has 
its  shibboleth,  as  well  as  its  insulting  epithet  and  the  mark 
with  which  it  brands  its  followers. 

"  Ah !  Madame,  you  are  the  portress  here,"  began  La 
Cibot.  "  I  myself  am  a  portress,  in  a  small  way,  in  a  house 
in  the  Rue  de  Normandie.  M.  Pons,  your  conductor,  lodges 
with  us.  Oh,  how  glad  I  should  be  to  have  your  place,  and 
see  the  actors  and  dancers  and  authors  go  past.  It  is  the 
marshal's  baton  in  our  profession,  as  the  old  actor  said." 

"And  how  is  M.  Pons  going  on,  good  man.?"  inquired 
the  portress. 

"  He  is  not  going  on  at  all ;  he  has  not  left  his  bed  these 
two  months.  He  will  only  leave  the  house  feet  foremost, 
that  is  certain." 


182  COUSIN  PONS 

"  He  will  be  missed." 

"  Yes.  I  have  come  with  a  message  to  the  manager  from 
him.     Just  try  to  get  me  a  word  with  him,  dear." 

"  A  lady  from  M.  Pons  to  see  you,  sir ! "  After  this 
fashion  did  the  youth  attached  to  the  service  of  the  man- 
ager's office  announce  Mme.  Cibot,  whom  the  portress  below 
had  particularly  recommended  to  his  care. 

Gaudissart  had  just  come  in  for  a  rehearsal.  Chance 
so  ordered  it  that  no  one  wished  to  speak  with  him ;  actors 
and  authors  were  alike  late.  Delighted  to  have  news  of  his 
conductor,  he  made  a  Napoleonic  gesture,  and  La  Cibot  was 
admitted. 

The  sometime  commercial  traveler,  now  the  head  of  a 
popular  theater,  regarded  his  sleeping  partners  in  the  light 
of  a  legitimate  wife ;  they  were  not  informed  of  all  his  doings. 
The  flourishing  state  of  his  finances  had  reacted  upon  his 
person.  Grown  big  and  stout  and  high-colored  with  good 
cheer  and  prosperity,  Gaudissart  made  no  disguise  of  his 
transformation  into  a  Mondor. 

"  We  are  turning  into  a  city-father,"  he  once  said,  trying 
to  be  the  first  to  laugh. 

"  You  are  only  in  the  Turcaret  stage  yet,  though,"  re- 
peated Bixiou,  who  often  replaced  Gaudissart  in  the  company 
of  the  leading  lady  of  the  ballet,  the  celebrated  Heloise 
Brisetout. 

The  former  Illustrious  Gaudissart,  in  fact,  was  exploiting 
the  theater  simply  and  solely  for  his  own  particular  benefit, 
and  with  brutal  disregard  of  other  interests.  He  first  in- 
sinuated himself  as  collaborator  in  various  ballets,  plays,  and 
vaude\dlles ;  then  he  waited  till  the  author  wanted  money 
and  bought  up  the  other  half  of  the  copyright.  These  after- 
pieces and  vaudevilles,  always  added  to  successful  plays, 
brought  him  in  a  daily  harvest  of  gold  coins.  He  trafficked 
by  proxy  in  tickets,  allotting  a  certain  number  to  himself, 
as  the  manager's  share,  till  he  took  in  this  way  a  tithe  of 
the  receipts.  And  Gaudissart  had  other  methods  of  making 
money  besides  these  official  contributions.  He  sold  boxes,  he 
took  presents  from  indifferent  actresses  burning  to  go  upon 
the  stage  to  fill  small  speaking  parts,  or  simply  to  appear 


COUSIN  PONS  183 

as  queens,  or  pages,  and  the  like;  he  swelled  his  nominal 
third  share  of  the  profits  to  such  purpose  that  the  sleeping 
partners  scarcely  received  one-tenth  instead  of  the  remaining 
two-thirds  of  the  net  receipts.  Even  so,  however,  the  tenth 
paid  them  a  dividend  of  fifteen  per  cent,  on  their  capital. 
On  the  strength  of  that  fifteen  per  cent.  Gaudissart  talked 
of  his  intelligence,  honesty,  and  zeal,  and  the  good  fortune 
of  his  partners.  When  Count  Popinot,  showing  an  interest 
in  the  concern,  asked  Matifat,  or  General  Gouraud  (Matifat's 
son-in-law),  or  Crevel,  whether  they  were  satisfied  with 
Gaudissart,  Gouraud,  now  a  peer  of  France,  answered,  "  They 
say  he  robs  us ;  but  he  is  such  a  clever,  good-natured  fellow, 
that  we  are  quite  satisfied." 

"  This  is  like  La  Fontaine's  fable,"  smiled  the  ex-cabinet 
minister. 

Gaudissart  found  investments  for  his  capital  in  other 
ventures.  He  thought  well  of  Schwab,  Brunner,  and  the 
Graffs ;  that  firm  was  promoting  railways,  he  became  a  share- 
holder in  the  lines.  His  shrewdness  was  carefully  hidden 
beneath  the  frank  carelessness  of  a  man  of  pleasure;  he 
seemed  to  be  interested  in  nothing  but  amusements  and  dress, 
yet  he  thought  everything  over,  and  his  wide  experience  of 
business  gained  as  a  commercial  traveler  stood  him  in  good 
stead. 

A  self-made  man,  he  did  not  take  himself  seriously.  He 
gave  suppers  and  banquets  to  celebrities  in  rooms  sumptu- 
ously furnished  by  the  house  decorator.  Showy  by  nature, 
with  a  taste  for  doing  things  handsomely,  he  affected  an 
easy-going  air,  and  seemed  so  much  the  less  formidable  be- 
cause he  had  kept  the  slang  of  "  the  road"  (to  use  his  own 
expression),  with  a  few  greenroom  phrases  superadded. 
Now,  artists  in  the  theatrical  profession  are  wont  to  express 
themselves  with  some  vigor ;  Gaudissart  borrowed  sufficient 
racy  greenroom  talk  to  blend  with  his  commercial  traveler's 
lively  jocularity,  and  passed  for  a  wit.  He  was  thinking 
at  that  moment  of  selling  his  license  and  "  going  into 
another  line,"  as  he  said.  He  thought  of  being  chairman 
of  a  railway  company,  of  becoming  a  responsible  person  and 
an   administrator,   and  finally   of   marrying  Mile.   Minard, 


184*  COUSIN  PONS 

daughter  of  the  richest  major  in  Paris.  He  might  hope 
to  get  into  the  Chamber  through  "  his  line,"  and,  with 
Popinot's  influence,  to  take  office  under  the  Government. 

"  Whom  have  I  the  honor  of  addressing? "  inquired 
Gaudissart,  looking  magisteriallj  at  La  Cibot. 

*'  I  am  M.  Pons's  confidential  servant,  sir." 

*'  Well,  and  how  is  the  dear  fellow.?  " 

"  111,  sir— very  ill." 

"  The  devil  he  is  J  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it — I  must  come 
and  see  him ;  he  is  such  a  man  as  you  don't  often  find." 

"  Ah,  yes !  sir,  he  is  a  cherub,  he  is.  I  have  always  won- 
dered how  he  came  to  be  in  a  theater." 

"  Why,  Madame,  the  theater  is  a  house  of  correction 
for  morals,"  said  Gaudissart.  "  Poor  Pons ! — Upon  my 
word,  one  ought  to  cultivate  the  species  to  keep  up  the 
stock.  'Tis  a  pattern  man,  and  has  talent  too.  When 
will  he  be  able  to  take  his  orchestra  again,  do  you  think.'* 
A  theater,  unfortunately,  is  like  a  stage-coach:  empty  or 
full,  it  starts  at  the  same  time.  Here,  at  six  o'clock  every 
evening,  up  goes  the  curtain ;  and  if  we  are  never  so  sorry 
for  ourselves,  it  won't  make  good  music.  Let  us  see  now — 
how  is  he?  " 

La  Cibot  pulled  out  her  pocket-handkerchief  and  held  it 
to  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  say,  my  dear  sir,"  said  she ; 
*'  but  I  am  afraid  we  shall  lose  him,  though  we  are  as  careful 
of  him  as  of  the  apple  of  our  eyes.  And,  at  the  same  time, 
I  came  to  say  that  you  must  not  count  on  M.  Schmucke, 
worthy  man,  for  he  is  going  to  sit  up  with  him  at  night. 
One  cannot  help  doing  as  if  there  was  hope  still  left,  and 
trying  one's  best  to  snatch  the  dear,  good  soul  from  death. 
But  the  doctor  has  given  him  up " 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him?  " 

"  He  is  dying  of  grief,  jaundice,  and  liver  complaint,  with 
a  lot  of  family  affairs  to  complicate  matters." 

"  And  a  doctor  as  well,"  said  Gaudissart.  "  He  ought 
to  have  had  Lebi*un,  our  doctor;  it  would  have  cost  him 
nothing." 

"  M.  Pons's  doctor  is  a  Providence  on  earth.     But  what 


COUSIN  PONS  185 

can  a  doctor  ido,  no  matter  how  clever  he  Is,  with  such  com- 
plications ! " 

"  I  wanted  the  good  pair  of  nutcrackers  badly  for  the 
accompaniment  of  my  new  fairy  piece." 

"  Is  it  anything  that  I  can  do  for  them?"  asked  La  Cibot, 
and  her  expression  would  have  done  credit  to  a  Jocrisse. 

Gaudissart  burst  out  laughing. 

"  I  am  their  housekeeper,  sir,  and  do  many  things  my 

gentlemen "     She  did  not  finish  her  speech,  for  in  the 

middle  of  Gaudissart's  roar  of  laughter  a  woman's  voice 
exclaimed,  "  If  you  are  laughing,  old  man,  one  may  come 
in,"  and  the  leading  lady  of  the  ballet  rushed  into  the  room 
and  flung  herself  upon  the  only  sofa.  The  newcomer  was 
Heloise  Brisetout,  with  a  splendid  algerienne,  as  such  scarfs 
used  to  be  called,  about  her  shoulders. 

"Who  is  amusing  you.f*  Is  it  this  lady.''  What  post 
does  she  want.''  "  asked  this  nymph,  giving  the  manager  such 
a  glance  as  artist  gives  artist,  a  glance  that  would  make 
a  subject  for  a  picture. 

Heloise,  a  young  woman  of  exceedingly  literary  tastes,  was 
on  intimate  terms  with  great  and  famous  artists  in  Bohemia. 
Elegant,  accomplished,  and  graceful,  she  was  more  intelligent 
than  dancers  usually  are.  As  she  put  her  question,  she 
sniffed  at  a  scent-bottle  full  of  some  aromatic  perfume. 

"  One  fine  woman  is  as  good  as  another,  Madame ;  and 
if  I  don't  sniffs  the  pestilence  out  of  a  scent-bottle,  nor  daub 
brick-dust  on  my  cheeks " 

"  That  would  be  a  sinful  waste,  child,  when  Nature  put 
it  on  for  you  to  begin  with,"  said  Heloise,  with  a  side  glance 
at  her  manager. 

"  I  am  an  honest  woman " 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you.  It  is  not  everyone  by  a 
long  chalk  that  can  find  someone  to  keep  them,  and  kept  I 
am,  and  in  slap-up  style,  Madame." 

"So  much  the  worse!  What  do  you  mean.''  Oh,  you 
may  toss  your  head  and  go  about  in  scarfs,  you  will  never 
have  as  many  declarations  as  /  have  had,  missus.  You  will 
never  match  the  Belle  Ecaillere  of  the  Cadran  bleu." 

Heloise  Brisetout  rose  at  once  to  her  feet,  stood  at  atten- 


186  COUSIN  PONS 

tion,  and  made  a  military  salute,  like  a  soldier  who  meets 
his  general. 

"What?"  asked  Gaudissart,  "are  you  really  La  Belle 
Ecaillere  of  whom  my  father  used  to  talk?  " 

"  In  that  case  the  cachucha  and  the  polka  were  after 
your  time ;  and  Madame  has  passed  her  fiftieth  year,"  re- 
marked Heloise,  and  striking  an  attitude,  she  declaimed, 
*'  *  Cinna,  let  us  be  friends.'  " 

"  Come,  Heloise,  the  lady  is  not  up  to  this ;  let  her  alone." 

"  Madame  is  perhaps  the  New  Heloise,"  suggested  La 
Cibot,  with  sly  innocence. 

"  Not  bad,  old  lady !  "  cried  Gaudissart. 

"  It  is  a  venerable  joke,"  said  the  dancer,  "  a  grizzled 
pun ;  find  us  another,  old  lady — or  take  a  cigarette." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Madame,  I  feel  too  unhappy  to 
answer  you ;  my  two  gentlemen  are  very  ill ;  and  to  buy 
nourishment  for  them  and  to  spare  them  trouble,  I  have 
pawned  everything  down  to  my  husband's  clothes  that  I 
pledged  this  morning.     Here  is  the  ticket !  " 

"  Oh !  here,  the  affair  is  becoming  tragic,"  cried  the  fair 
Heloise.     "  What  is  it  all  about?  " 

"  Madame  drops  down  upon  us  like ^" 

"  Like  a  dancer,"  said  Heloise ;  "  let  me  prompt  you, — 


missus 


I  " 


"Come,  I  am  busy,"  said  Gaudissart.  "The  joke  has 
gone  far  enough.  Heloise,  this  is  M.  Pons's  confidential 
servant ;  she  has  come  to  tell  me  that  I  must  not  count  upon 
him ;  our  poor  conductor  is  not  expected  to  live.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do." 

"  Oh !  poor  man ;  why,  he  must  have  a  benefit." 

"  It  would  ruin  him,"  said  Gaudissart.  "  He  might  find 
next  day  that  he  owed  five  hundred  francs  to  charitable  in- 
stitutions, and  they  refuse  to  admit  that  there  are  any 
sufferers  in  Paris  except  their  own.  No,  look  here,  my  good 
woman,  since  you  are  going  in  for  the  Montyon  prize " 

He  broke  off,  rang  the  bell,  and  the  youth  before  men- 
tioned suddenly  appeared. 

"  Tell  the  cashier  to  send  me  up  a  thousand-franc  note. — 
Sit  down,  Madame." 


COUSIN  PONS  187 

"  Ah !  poor  woman,  look,  she  is  crying !  "  exclaimed  Heloise. 
"  How  stupid !  There,  there,  mother,  we  will  go  to  see  him ; 
don't  cry. — I  say,  now,"  she  continued,  taking  the  manager 
into  a  corner,  "  you  want  to  make  me  take  the  leading  part 
in  the  ballet  in  Ariane,  you  Turk.  You  are  going  to  be 
married,  and  you  know  how  I  can  make  you  miserable " 

"  Heloise,  my  heart  is  copper-bottomed  like  a  man-of-war." 

"  I  shall  bring  your  children  on  the  scene !  I  will  borrow 
some  somewhere." 

"I  have  owned  up  about  the  attachment." 

"  Do  be  nice,  and  give  Pons's  post  to  Garangeot ;  he  has 
talent,  poor  fellow,  and  he  has  not  a  penny ;  and  I  promise 
peace." 

"  But  wait  till  Pons  is  dead,  in  case  the  good  man  may 
come  back  again." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  no,  sir,"  said  La  Cibot.  "  He  began 
to  wander  in  his  mind  last  nlghb,  and  now  he  is  delirious. 
It  will  soon  be  over,  unfortunately." 

"  At  any  rate,  take  Garangeot  as  a  stop-gap ! "  pleaded 
Helo'ise.     "  He  has  the  whole  press  on  his  side " 

Just  at  that  moment  the  cashier  came  in  with  a  note  for 
a  thousand  francs  in  his  hand. 

"  Give  it  to  Madame  here,"  said  Gaudissart.  "  Good-day, 
my  good  woman;  take  good  care  of  the  dear  man,  and  tell 
him  that  I  am  coming  to  see  him  to-morrow,  or  sometime — 
as  soon  as  I  can,  in  short." 

*'  A  drowning  man,"  said  Heloise. 

"  Ah,  sir,  hearts  like  yours  are  only  found  in  a  theater. 
May  God  bless  you  !  " 

"To  what  account  shall  I  post  this  item.?"  asked  the 
cashier. 

"  I  will  countersign  the  order.  Post  it  to  the  bonus 
account." 

Before  La  Cibot  went  out,  she  made  Mile.  Brisetout  a  fine 
courtesy,  and  heard  Gaudissart  remark  to  his  mistress — 

"  Can  Garangeot  do  the  dance-music  for  the  Mohicans 
in  twelve  days.?  If  he  helps  me  out  of  my  predicament,  he 
shall  have  Pons's  place." 

La  Cibot  had  cut  off  the  incomes  of  the  two  friends,  she 


188  COUSIN  PONS 

had  left  them  without  means  of  subsistence  if  Pons  should 
chance  to  recover,  and  was  better  rewarded  for  all  this 
mischief  than  for  any  good  that  she  had  done.  In  a  few 
days'  time  her  treacherous  trick  would  bring  about  the  de- 
sired result — Elie  Magus  would  have  his  coveted  pictures. 
But  if  this  first  spoliation  was  to  be  effected,  La  Cibot  must 
throw  dust  in  Fraisier's  eyes,  and  lull  the  suspicions  of  that 
terrible  fellow-conspirator  of  her  own  seeking;  and  Elie 
Magus  and  Remonencq  must  be  bound  over  to  secrecy. 

As  for  Remonencq,  he  had  gradually  come  to  feel  such  a 
passion  as  uneducated  people  can  conceive  when  they  come 
to  Paris  from  the  depths  of  the  country,  bringing  with  them 
all  the  fixed  ideas  bred  of  the  solitary  country  life;  all  the 
ignorance  of  a  primitive  nature,  all  the  brute  appetites  that 
become  so  many  fixed  ideas.  Mme.  Cibot's  mascuhne  beauty, 
her  vivacity,  her  market-woman's  wit,  had  all  been  remarked 
by  the  marine-store-dealer.  He  thought  at  first  of  taking 
La  Cibot  from  her  husband,  bigamy  among  the  lower  classes 
in  Paris  being  much  more  common  than  is  generally  supposed ; 
but  greed  was  like  a  slip-knot  drawn  more  and  more  tightly 
about  his  heart,  till  reason  at  length  was  stifled.  When 
Remonencq  computed  that  the  commission  paid  by  himself 
and  Elie  Magus  amounted  to  about  forty  thousand  francs, 
he  determined  to  have  La  Cibot  for  his  legitimate  spouse, 
and  his  thoughts  turned  from  a  misdemeanor  to  a  crime.  A 
romantic,  purely  speculative  dream,  persistently  followed 
through  a  tobacco-smoker's  long  musings  as  he  lounged  in  the 
doorway,  had  brought  him  to  the  point  of  wishing  that  the 
little  tailor  were  dead.  At  a  stroke  he  beheld  his  capital 
trebled ;  and  then  he  thought  of  La  Cibot.  What  a  good  sales- 
woman she  would  be !  What  a  handsome  figure  she  would  make 
in  a  magnificent  shop  on  the  Boulevards !  The  twofold  covet- 
ousness  turned  Remonencq's  head.  In  fancy  he  took  a  shop 
that  he  knew  of  on  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine,  he  stocked 
it  with  Pons's  treasures,  and  then — after  dreaming  his  dream 
in  sheets  of  gold,  after  seeing  millions  in  the  blue  spiral 
wreaths  that  rose  from  his  pipe — he  awoke  to  find  himself 
face  to  face  with  the  little  tailor.  Cibot  was  sweeping  the 
yard,  the  doorstep,  and  the  pavement  just  as  his  neighbor 


COUSIN  PONS  189 

was  taking  down  the  shutters  and  displaying  his  wares ;  for 
since  Pons  fell  ill,  La  Cibot's  work  had  fallen  to  her  husband. 

The  Auvergnat  began  to  look  upon  the  little,  swarthy, 
stunted,  copper-colored  tailor  as  the  one  obstacle  in  his  way, 
and  pondered  how  to  be  rid  of  him.  Meanwhile,  this  grow- 
ing passion  made  La  Cibot  very  proud,  for  she  had  reached 
an  age  when  a  woman  begins  to  understand  that  she  may 
grow  old. 

So  early  one  morning,  she  meditatively  watched  Remonencq 
as  he  arranged  his  odds  and  ends  for  sale.  She  wondered 
how  far  his  love  could  go.     He  came  across  to  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  are  things  going  as  you  wish?  " 

"  It  is  you  who  make  me  uneasy,"  said  La  Cibot.  "  I 
shall  be  talked  about;  the  neighbors  will  see  you  making 
sheep's  eyes  at  me." 

She  left  the  doorway  and  dived  into  the  Auvergnat's  back 
shop. 

"  What  a  notion !  "  said  Remonencq. 

"  Come  here,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  said  La 
Cibot.  "  M.  Pons's  heirs  are  about  to  make  a  stir ;  they 
are  capable  of  giving  us  a  lot  of  trouble.  God  knows  what 
might  come  of  it  if  they  send  the  lawyers  here  to  poke  their 
noses  into  the  affair  like  hunting-dogs.  I  cannot  get  M. 
Schmucke  to  sell  a  few  pictures  unless  you  like  me  well 
enough  to  keep  the  secret — such  a  secret! — With  your  head 
on  the  block,  you  must  not  say  where  the  pictures  come 
from,  nor  who  it  was  that  sold  them.  When  M.  Pons 
is  once  dead  and  buried,  you  understand,  nobody  will  know 
how  many  pictures  there  ought  to  be ;  if  there  are  fifty-three 
pictures  instead  of  sixty-seven,  nobody  will  be  any  the  wiser. 
Besides,  if  M.  Pons  sold  them  himself  while  he  was  alive> 
nobody  can  find  fault." 

"  No,"  agreed  Remonencq,  "  it  is  all  one  to  me,  but  M. 
Elie  Magus  will  want  receipts  in  due  form." 

"  And  you  shall  have  your  receipt  too,  bless  your  life ! 
Do  you  suppose  that  /  should  write  them  ? — ^No,  M.  Schmucke 
win  do  that.  But  tell  your  Jew  that  he  must  keep  the 
secret  as  closely  as  you  do,"  she  continued. 

'*  We  will  be  as  mute  as  fishes.     That  is  our  business.     I 


190  COUSIN  PONS 

myself  can  read,  but  I  cannot  write,  and  that  is  why  I  want 
a  capable  wife  that  has  had  education  like  you.  I  have 
thought  of  nothing  but  earning  my  bread  all  my  days,  and 
now  I  wish  I  had  some  little  Remonencqs.  Do  leave  that 
Cibot  of  yours." 

"  Why,  here  comes  your  Jew,"  said  the  portress ;  **  we 
can  arrange  the  whole  business." 

Elie  Magus  came  every  third  day  very  early  in  the  morning 
to  know  when  he  could  buy  his  pictures.  "  Well,  my  dear 
lady,"  said  he,  "  how  are  we  getting  on.''  " 

"  Has  nobody  been  to  speak  to  you  about  M.  Pons  and 
his  gimcracks.''  "  asked  La  Cibot. 

"  I  received  a  letter  from  a  lawyer,"  said  Elie  Magus, 
*'  a  rascal  that  seems  to  me  to  be  trying  to  work  for  himself ; 
I  don't  like  people  of  that  sort,  so  I  took  no  notice  of  his 
letter.  Three  days  afterwards  he  came  to  see  me,  and  left 
his  card.  I  told  my  porter  that  I  am  never  at  home  when 
he  calls." 

"  You  are  a  love  of  a  Jew,"  said  La  Cibot.  Little  did  she 
know  Elie  Magus's  prudence.  "  Well,  sonnies,  in  a  few 
days'  time  I  will  bring  M.  Schmucke  to  the  point  of  selling 
you  seven  or  eight  pictures,  ten  at  most.  But  on  two  con- 
ditions.— Absolute  secrecy  in  the  first  place.  M.  Schmucke 
will  send  for  you,  sir,  is  not  that  so.^*  And  M.  Remonencq 
suggested  that  you  might  be  a  purchaser,  eh? — And,  come 
what  may,  I  will  not  meddle  in  it  for  nothing.  You  are 
giving  forty-six  thousand  francs  for  four  pictures,  are  you 
not.?" 

"  So  be  it,"  groaned  the  Jew. 

"  Very  good.  This  is  the  second  condition.  You  will 
give  me  forty-three  thousand  francs,  and  pay  three  thousand 
only  to  M.  Schmucke;  Remonencq  will  buy  four  for  two 
thousand  francs,  and  hand  over  the  surplus  to  me. — But, 
at  the  same  time,  you  see,  my  dear  M.  Magus,  I  am  going 
to  help  you  and  Remonencq  to  a  splendid  bit  of  business — 
on  condition  that  the  profits  are  shared  among  the  three  of 
us.  I  will  introduce  you  to  that  lawyer,  as  he,  no  doubt, 
will  come  here.  You  shall  make  a  valuation  of  M.  Pons's 
things  at  the  prices  which  you  can  give  for  them,  so  that 


COUSIN  PONS  191 

M.  Fraisier  may  know  how  much  the  property  Is  worth. 
But — not  until  after  our  sale,  you  understand !  " 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  Jew,  "  but  it  takes  time  to  look 
at  the  things  and  value  them." 

"  You  shall  have  half  a  day.  But,  there,  that  is  my  affair. 
Talk  it  over  between  yourselves,  my  boys,  and  for  that 
matter  the  business  will  be  settled  by  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
I  will  go  round  to  speak  to  this  Fraisier ;  for  Dr.  Poulain 
tells  him  everything  that  goes  on  in  the  house,  and  it  is  a 
great  bother  to  keep  that  scarecrow  quiet." 

La  Cibot  met  Fraisier  halfway  between  the  Rue  de  la 
Perle  and  the  Rue  de  Normandie ;  so  impatient  was  he  to 
know  the  "  elements  of  the  case  "  (to  use  his  own  expression), 
that  he  was  coming  to  see  her. 

"  I  say !  I  was  going  to  you,"  said  she. 

Fraisier  grumbled  because  Elie  Magus  had  refused  to 
see  him.  But  La  Cibot  extinguished  the  spark  of  distrust 
that  gleamed  in  the  lawyer's  eyes  by  informing  him  that 
Elie  Magus  had  returned  from  a  journey,  and  that  she 
would  arrange  for  an  interview  in  Pons's  rooms  and  for 
the  valuation  of  the  property ;  for  the  day  after  to-morrow 
at  latest. 

"  Deal  frankly  with  me,"  returned  Fraisier.  "  It  is  more 
than  probable  that  I  shall  act  for  M.  Pons's  next-of-kin. 
In  that  case,  I  shall  be  even  better  able  to  serve  you." 

The  words  were  spoken  so  dryly  that  La  Cibot  quaked. 
This  starving  limb  of  the  law  was  sure  to  maneuver  on  his 
side  as  she  herself  was  doing.  She  resolved  forthwith  to 
hurry  on  the  sale  of  the  pictures. 

La  Cibot  was  right.  The  doctor  and  lawyer  had  clubbed 
together  to  buy  a  new  suit  of  clothes  in  which  Fraisier  could 
decently  present  himself  before  Mme.  la  Presidente  Camusot 
de  Marville.  Indeed,  if  the  clothes  had  been  ready,  the 
interview  would  have  taken  place  sooner,  for  the  fate  of  the 
couple  hung  upon  its  issues.  Fraisier  left  Mme.  Cibot,  and 
went  to  try  on  his  new  clothes.  He  found  them  waiting 
for  him,  went  home,  adjusted  his  new  wig,  and  towards  ten 
o'clock  that  morning  set  out  in  a  carriage  from  a  livery 
stable  for  the  Rue  de  Hanovre,  hoping  for  an  audience.     In 


192  COUSIN  PONS 

his  white  tie,  yellow  gloves,  and  new  wig,  redolent  of  eau  de 
Portugal,  he  looked  something  like  a  poisonous  essence  kept 
in  a  cut-glass  bottle,  seeming  but  the  more  deadly  because 
everything  about  it  is  daintily  neat,  from  the  stopper  covered 
with  white  kid  to  the  label  and  the  thread.  His  peremptory 
manner,  the  eruption  on  his  blotched  countenance,  the  green 
eyes,  and  a  malignant  something  about  him, — all  these  things 
struck  the  beholder  with  the  same  sense  of  surprise  as  storm- 
clouds  in  a  blue  sky.  If  in  his  private  ojffice,  as  he  showed 
himself  to  La  Cibot,  he  was  the  common  knife  that  a  mur- 
derer catches  up  for  his  crime, — now,  at  the  Presidente's 
door,  he  was  the  daintily-wrought  dagger  which  a  woman 
sets  among  the  ornaments  on  her  what-not. 

A  great  change  had  taken  place  in  the  Rue  de  Hanovre. 
The  Count  and  Countess  Popinot  and  the  young  people  would 
not  allow  the  President  and  his  wife  to  leave  the  house  that 
they  had  settled  upon  their  daughter  to  pay  rent  elsewhere. 
M.  and  Mme.  la  Presidente,  therefore,  were  installed  on  the 
second  floor,  now  left  at  hberty,  for  the  elderly  lady  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  end  her  days  in  the  country. 

Mme.  Camusot  took  Madeleine  Vivet,  with  her  cook  and 
her  man-servant,  to  the  second  floor,  and  would  have  been 
as  much  pinched  for  money  as  in  the  early  days,  if  the  house 
had  not  been  rent-free,  and  the  President's  salary  increased 
to  ten  thousand  francs.  This  aurea  mediocritas  was  but 
little  satisfactory  to  Mme.  de  Marville.  Even  now  she 
wished  for  means  more  in  accordance  with  her  ambitions ; 
for  when  she  handed  over  their  fortune  to  their  daughter, 
she  spoiled  her  husband's  prospects.  Now  Amelie  had  set  her 
heart  upon  seeing  her  husband  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies ; 
she  was  not  one  of  those  women  who  find  it  easy  to  give  up 
their  way;  and  she  by  no  means  despaired  of  returning  her 
husband  for  the  arrondissement  in  which  Marville  is  situated. 
So  for  the  past  two  months  she  had  teased  her  father-in- 
law,  M.  le  Baron  Camusot  (for  the  new  peer  of  France  had 
been  advanced  to  that  rank),  and  done  her  utmost  to  extort 
an  advance  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs  of  the  inheritance 
which  one  day  would  be  theirs.  She  wanted,  she  said,  to 
buy  a  small  estate  worth  about  two  thousand  francs  per 


COUSIN  PONS  193 

annum  set  like  a  wedge  within  the  Marville  lands.  There 
she  and  her  husband  would  be  near  their  children  and  in 
their  own  house,  while  the  addition  would  round  out  the 
Marville  property.  With  that  the  Presidente  laid  stress 
upon  the  recent  sacrifices  which  she  and  her  husband  had  been 
compelled  to  make  in  order  to  marry  Cecile  to  Viscount 
Popinot,  and  asked  the  old  man  how  he  could  bar  his  eldest 
son's  way  to  the  highest  honors  of  the  magistracy,  when 
such  honors  were  only  to  be  had  by  those  who  made  them- 
selves a  strong  position  in  parliament.  Her  husband  would 
know  how  to  take  up  such  a  position,  he  would  make  himself 
feared  by  those  in  office,  and  so  on  and  so  on.  "  They  do 
nothing  for  you  unless  you  tighten  a  halter  round  their  necks 
to  loosen  their  tongues,"  said  she.  "  They  are  ungrateful. 
What  do  they  not  owe  to  Camusot !  Camusot  brought  the 
House  of  Orleans  to  the  throne  by  enforcing  the  ordinances 
of  July." 

M.  Camusot  senior  answered  that  he  had  gone  out  of  his 
depth  in  railway  speculations.  He  quite  admitted  that  it 
was  necessary  to  come  to  the  rescue,  but  put  off  the  day 
until  shares  should  rise,  as  they  were  expected  to  do. 

This  half-promise,  extracted  some  few  days  before 
Fraisier's  visit,  had  plunged  the  Presidente  into  depths  of 
affliction.  It  was  doubtful  whether  the  ex-proprietor  of 
Marville  was  eligible  for  re-election  without  the  land  quali- 
fication. 

Fraisier  found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  speech  of  Made- 
leine Vivet ;  such  viper  natures  own  their  kinship  at  once. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Mme.  la  Presidente  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, Mademoiselle,"  Fraisier  said  in  bland  accents ;  "  I 
have  come  on  a  matter  of  business  which  touches  her  fortune ; 
it  is  a  question  of  a  legacy,  be  sure  you  mention  that.  I 
have  not  the  honor  of  being  known  to  Mme.  la  Presidente, 
so  my  name  is  of  no  consequence.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of 
leaving  my  chambers,  but  I  know  the  respect  that  is  due  to 
a  President's  wife,  and  I  took  the  trouble  of  coming  myself 
to  save  all  possible  delay." 

The  matter  thus  broached,  when  repeated  and  amplified 
by  the  waiting-maid,  naturally  brought  a  favorable  answer. 


194.  COUSIN  PONS 

It  was  a  decisive  moment  for  the  double  ambition  hidden  in 
Fraisier's  mind.  Bold  as  a  petty  provincial  attorney,  sharp, 
rough-spoken,  and  curt  as  he  was,  he  felt  as  captains  feel 
before  the  decisive  battle  of  a  campaign.  As  he  went  into 
the  little  drawing-room  where  Amelie  was  waiting  for  him, 
he  felt  a  slight  perspiration  breaking  out  upon  his  forehead 
and  down  his  back.  Every  sudorific  hitherto  employed  had 
failed  to  produce  this  result  upon  a  skin  which  horrible 
diseases  had  left  impervious.  "  Even  if  I  fail  to  make  my 
fortune,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  I  shall  recover.  Poulain  said 
that  if  I  could  only  perspire  I  should  recover." 

The  Presidente  came  forward  in  her  morning  gown. 

"  Madame "  said  Fraisier,  stopping  short  to  bow  with 

the  humility  by  which  officials  recognize  the  superior  rank 
of  the  person  whom  they  address. 

"  Take  a  seat,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Presidente.  She  saw 
at  a  glance  that  this  was  a  man  of  law. 

"  Mme.  la  Presidente,  if  I  take  the  liberty  of  calling  your 
attention  to  a  matter  which  concerns  M.  le  President,  it  is 
because  I  am  sure  that  M.  de  Marville,  occupying,  as  he  does, 
a  high  position,  would  leave  matters  to  take  their  natural 
course,  and  so  lose  seven  or  eight  hundred  thousand  francs, 
a  sum  which  ladies  (who,  in  my  opinion,  have  a  far  better 
understanding  of  private  business  than  the  best  of  magis- 
trates)— a  sum  which  ladies,  I  repeat,  would  by  no  means 
despise " 

"  You  spoke  of  a  legacy,"  interrupted  the  lady,  dazzled 
by  the  wealth,  and  anxious  to  hide  her  surprise.  Amelie  de 
Marville,  like  an  impatient  novel-reader,  wanted  the  end  of 
the  story. 

"  Yes,  Madame,  a  legacy  that  you  are  like  to  lose ;  3'es, 
to  lose  altogether ;  but  I  can,  that  is,  I  could  recover  it  for 
you,  if " 

"  Speak  out.  Monsieur."  Mme.  de  Marville  spoke  frigidly, 
scanning  Fraisier  as  she  spoke  with  a  sagacious  eye. 

"  Madame,  your  eminent  capacity  is  known  to  me ;  I  was 
once  at  Mantes.  M.  Leboeuf,  President  of  the  Tribunal, 
is  acquainted  with  M.  de  Marville,  and  can  answer  inquiries 
about  me " 


COUSIN  PONS  195 

The  Presldente's  shrug  was  so  ruthlessly  significant,  that 
Fraisier  was  compelled  to  make  short  work  of  his  parenthetic 
discourse. 

"  So  distinguished  a  woman  will  at  once  understand  why 
I  speak  of  myself  in  the  first  place.  It  is  the  shortest  way 
to  the  property," 

To  this  acute  observation  the  lady  replied  by  a  gesture. 
Fraisier  took  the  sign  for  a  permission  to  continue. 

"  I  was  an  attorney,  Madame,  at  Mantes.  My  connection 
was  all  the  fortune  that  I  was  likely  to  have.  I  took  over 
M.  Levroux's  practice.     You  knew  him,  no  doubt.''  " 

The  Presidente  inclined  her  head. 

"  With  borrowed  capital  and  some  ten  thousand  francs 
of  my  own,  I  went  to  Mantes.  I  had  been  with  Desroches, 
one  of  the  cleverest  attorneys  in  Paris,  I  had  been  his  head- 
clerk  for  six  years.  I  was  so  unlucky  as  to  make  an  enemy 
of  the  attorney  for  the  crown  at  Mantes,  Monsieur " 

"  Olivier  Vinet." 

"  Son  of  the  Attorney-General,  yes,  Madame.  He  was 
paying  his  court  to  a  little  person " 

"Whom?" 

"Mme.  Vatinelle." 

"  Oh !  Mme.  Vatinelle.  She  was  very  pretty  and  very — er 
— when  I  was  there " 

"  She  was  not  unkind  to  me:  inde  irce,"  Fraisier  continued. 
"  I  was  industrious ;  I  wanted  to  repay  my  friends  and  to 
marry ;  I  wanted  work ;  I  went  in  search  of  it ;  and  before 
long  I  had  more  on  my  hands  than  anybody  else.  Bah !  I 
had  every  soul  in  Mantes  against  me — attorneys,  notaries, 
and  even  the  bailiffs.  They  tried  to  fasten  a  quarrel  on  me. 
In  our  ruthless  profession,  as  you  know,  Madame,  if  you 
wish  to  ruin  a  man,  it  is  soon  done.  I  was  concerned  for 
both  parties  in  a  case,  and  they  found  it  out.  It  was  a 
trifle  irregular ;  but  it  is  sometimes  done  in  Paris ;  attorneys 
in  certain  cases  hand  the  rhubarb  and  take  the  senna.  They 
do  things  differently  at  Mantes,  I  had  done  M.  Bouyonnet 
this  little  service  before ;  but,  egged  on  by  his  colleagues  and 
the  attorney  for  the  crown,  he  betrayed  me. — I  am  keeping 
back  nothing,   you   see. — There  was   a   great  hue   and   cry 


196  COUSIN  PONS 

about  it.  I  was  a  scoundrel;  they  made  me  out  blacker 
than  Marat;  forced  me  to  sell  out;  ruined  me.  And  I  am 
in  Paris  now.  I  have  tried  to  get  together  a  practice; 
but  my  health  is  so  bad,  that  I  have  only  two  quiet  hours 
out  of  the  twenty-four. 

"  At  this  moment  I  have  but  one  ambition,  and  a  very 
small  one.  Some  day,"  he  continued,  "  you  will  be  the  wife 
of  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  or  of  the  Home  Secretary,  it 
may  be ;  but  I,  poor  and  sickly  as  I  am,  desire  nothing  but 
a  post  in  which  I  can  live  in  peace  for  the  rest  of  my  life, 
a  place  without  any  opening  in  which  to  vegetate.  I  should 
like  to  be  a  justice  of  the  peace  in  Paris.  It  would  be  a 
mere  trifle  to  you  and  M.  le  President  to  gain  the  appointment 
for  me ;  for  the  present  Keeper  of  the  Seals  must  be  anxious 
to  keep  on  good  terms  with  you 

"  And  that  is  not  all,  Madame,"  added  Fraisier.  Seeing 
that  Mme.  de  Marville  was  about  to  speak,  he  cut  her  short 
with  a  gesture.  "  I  have  a  friend,  the  doctor  in  attendance 
on  the  old  man  who  ought  to  leave  his  property  to  M.  le 
President.  (We  are  coming  to  the  point,  you  see.)  The 
doctor's  co-operation  is  indispensable,  and  the  doctor  is  pre- 
cisely in  my  position:  he  has  abilities,  he  is  unlucky.  I 
learned  through  him  how  far  your  interests  were  imperiled; 
for  even  as  I  speak,  all  may  be  over,  and  the  will  disinheriting 
M.  le  President  may  have  been  made.  This  doctor  wishes 
to  be  head-surgeon  of  a  hospital  or  of  a  Government  school. 
He  must  have  a  position  in  Paris  equal  to  mine. 
Pardon  me  if  I  have  enlarged  on  a  matter  so  delicate ;  but 
we  must  have  no  misunderstandings  in  this  business.  The 
doctor  is,  besides,  much  respected  and  learned ;  he  saved  the 
life  of  the  Comtesse  Popinot's  great-uncle,  M.  Pillerault. 

"  Now,  if  you  are  so  good  as  to  promise  these  two  posts — 
the  appointment  of  justice  of  the  peace  and  the  sinecure  for 
my  friend — I  will  undertake  to  bring  you  the  property, 
almost  intact. — ^Almost  intact,  I  say,  for  the  co-operation 
of  the  legatee  and  of  several  other  persons  is  absolutely  in- 
dispensable, and  some  obligations  will  be  incurred.  You  will 
not  redeem  your  promises  until  I  have  fulfilled  mine." 

The  Presidente  had   folded  her  arms,  and   for  the  last 


COUSIN  PONS  197 

minute  or  two  sat  like  a  person  compelled  to  listen  to  a 
sermon.  Now  she  unfolded  her  arms,  and  looked  at  Fraisier 
as  she  said,  "  Monsieur,  all  that  you  say  concerning  your 
interests  has  the  merit  of  clearness ;  but  my  own  interests 
in  the  matter  are  by  no  means  so  clear " 

*'  A  word  or  two  will  explain  everything,  Madame.  M. 
le  President  is  M.  Pons's  first  cousin  once  removed,  and  his 
sole  heir.  M.  Pons  is  very  ill;  he  is  about  to  make  his  will, 
if  it  is  not  made  already,  in  favor  of  a  German,  a  friend 
of  his  named  Schmucke ;  and  he  has  more  than  seven  hundred 
thousand  francs  to  leave.  I  hope  to  have  an  accurate  valua- 
tion made  in  two  or  three  days " 

*'  If  this  is   so,"   said  the  Presidente,  "  I  made  a  great 

mistake  in  quarreling  with  him  and  throwing  the  blame " 

she  thought  aloud,  amazed  by  the  possibility  of  such  a 
sum. 

**  No,  Madame.  If  there  had  been  no  rupture,  he  would 
be  as  blithe  as  a  lark  at  this  moment,  and  might  outlive 
you  and  M.  le  President  and  me.  .  .  .  The  ways  of 
Providence  are  mysterious,  let  us  not  seek  to  fathom  them," 
he  added,  to  palliate  to  some  extent  the  hideous  idea.  "  It 
cannot  be  helped.  We  men  of  business  look  at  the  practical 
aspects  of  things.  Now  you  see  clearly,  Madame,  that  M. 
de  Marville  in  his  public  position  would  do  nothing,  and 
could  do  nothing,  as  things  are.  He  has  broken  off  all 
relations  with  liis  cousin.  You  see  nothing  now  of  Pons; 
you  have  forbidden  him  the  house ;  you  had  excellent  reasons, 
no  doubt,  for  doing  as  you  did,  but  the  old  man  is  ill,  and 
he  is  leaving  his  property  to  the  only  friend  left  to  him. 
A  President  of  the  Court  of  Appeal  in  Paris  could  say 
nothing  under  such  circumstances  if  the  will  was  made  out 
in  due  form.  But  between  ourselves,  Madame,  when  one 
has  a  right  to  expect  seven  or  eight  hundred  thousand  francs 
— or  a  million,  it  may  be  (how  should  I  know?) — it  is  very 
unpleasant  to  have  it  slip  through  one's  fingers,  especially 
if  one  happens  to  be  the  heir-at-law.  .  .  .  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  to  prevent  this,  one  is  obliged  to  stoop  to  dirty 
work;  work  so  difficult,  so  ticklish,  bringing  you  cheek  by 
jowl  with  such  low  people,  servants  and  subordinates;  and 


198  COUSIN  PONS 

into  such  close  contact  with  them  too,  that  no  barrister,  no 
attorney  in  Paris  could  take  up  such  a  case. 

"  What  you  want  is  a  briefless  barrister  like  me,"  said  he, 
"  a  man  who  should  have  real  and  solid  ability,  who  has 
learned  to  be  devoted,  and  yet,  being  in  a  precarious  position, 
is  brought  temporarily  to  a  level  with  such  people.  In  my 
arrondissement  I  undertake  business  for  small  tradespeople 
and  working  folk.  Yes,  Madame,  you  see  the  straits  to  which 
I  have  been  brought  by  the  enmity  of  an  attorney  for  the 
crown,  now  a  deputy-public  prosecutor  in  Paris,  who  could 
not  forgive  me  my  superiority. — I  know  you,  Madame,  I  know 
that  your  influence  means  a  solid  certainty ;  and  in  such  a 
service  rendered  to  you,  I  saw  the  end  of  my  troubles  and 
success  for  my  friend  Dr.  Poulain." 

The  lady  sat  pensive  during  a  moment  of  unspeakable 
torture  for  Fraisier.  Vinet,  an  orator  of  the  Center,  attor- 
ney-general (procureur-general)  for  the  past  sixteen  years, 
nominated  half-a-score  of  times  for  the  chancellorship,  the 
father,  moreover,  of  the  attorney  for  the  crown  at  Mantes, 
who  had  been  appointed  to  a  post  in  Paris  within  the  last 
year — Vinet  was  an  enemy  and  a  rival  for  the  malignant 
Presidente.  The  haughty  attorney-general  did  not  hide  his 
contempt  for  President  Camusot.  This  fact  Fraisier  did 
not  know,  and  could  not  know. 

"  Have  you  nothing  on  your  conscience  but  the  fact  that 
you  were  concerned  for  both  parties  ?  "  asked  she,  looking 
steadily  at  Fraisier. 

"  Mme.  la  Presidente  can  see  M.  Leboeuf ;  M.  Leboeuf  was 
favorable  to  me." 

"  Do  you  feel  sure  that  M.  Leboeuf  will  give  M.  de  Marville 
and  M.  le  Comte  Popinot  a  good  account  of  you  ?  " 

"  I  will  answer  for  it,  especially  now  that  M.  Olivier  Vinet 
has  left  Mantes ;  for  between  ourselves,  good  M.  Leboeuf  was 
afraid  of  that  crabbed  little  official.  If  you  will  permit  me, 
Mme.  la  Presidente,  I  will  go  to  Mantes  and  see  M. 
Leboeuf.  No  time  will  be  lost,  for  I  cannot  be  certain  of 
the  precise  value  of  the  property  for  two  or  three  days. 
I  do  not  wish  that  you  should  know  all  the  ins  and  outs  of 
this  aff'air ;  you  ought  not  to  know  them,  Mme.  la  Presidente, 


COUSIN  PONS  199 

but  is  not  the  reward  that  I  expect  for  my  complete  devotion 
a  pledge  of  my  success?" 

"  Very  well.  If  M.  Leboeuf  will  speak  in  your  favor,  and 
if  the  property  is  worth  as  much  as  you  think  (I  doubt  it 
myself),  you  shall  have  both  appointments,  if  you  succeed, 
mind  you " 

"  I  will  answer  for  it,  Madame.  Only,  you  must  be  so 
good  as  to  have  your  notary  and  your  attorney  here  when 
I  shall  need  them ;  you  must  give  me  a  power  of  attorney 
to  act  for  M.  le  President,  and  tell  those  gentlemen  to  follow 
my  instructions,  and  to  do  nothing  on  their  own  responsi- 
bility." 

"  The  responsibility  rests  with  you,"  the  Presidente  an- 
swered solemnly,  "  so  you  ought  to  have  full  powers. — But 
is  M.  Pons  very  ill.?  "  she  asked,  smiling. 

*'  Upon  my  word,  Madame,  he  might  pull  through,  espe- 
cially with  so  conscientious  a  doctor  as  Poulain  in  attendance ; 
for  this  friend  of  mine,  Madame,  is  simply  an  unconscious 
spy  directed  by  me  in  your  interests.  Left  to  himself,  he 
would  save  the  old  man's  life ;  but  there  is  someone  else  by 
the  sick-bed,  a  portress,  who  would  push  him  into  his  grave 
for  thirty  thousand  francs.  Not  that  she  would  kill  him 
outright ;  she  will  not  give  him  arsenic,  she  is  not  so  merci- 
ful ;  she  will  do  worse,  she  will  kill  him  by  inches,  she  will 
worry  him  to  death  day  by  day.  If  the  poor  old  man  were 
kept  quiet  and  left  in  peace ;  if  he  were  taken  into  the  country 
and  cared  for  and  made  much  of  by  friends,  he  would  get 
well  again ;  but  he  is  harassed  by  a  sort  of  Mme.  Evrard. 
When  the  woman  was  young  she  was  one  of  thirty  Belles 
Ecailleres,  famous  in  Paris ;  she  is  a  rough,  greedy,  gossip- 
ing woman ;  she  torments  him  to  make  a  will  and  to  leave 
her  something  handsome,  and  the  end  of  it  will  be  induration 
of  the  liver;  calculi  are  possibly  forming  at  this  moment, 
and  he  has  not  strength  to  bear  an  operation.  The  doctor, 
noble  soul,  is  in  a  horrible  predicament.  He  really  ought 
to  send  the  woman  away " 

"  Why,  then,  this  vixen  is  a  monster ! "  cried  the  lady  in 
thin  flute-like  tones. 

Fraisier  smiled  inwardly  at  the  likeness  between  himself 


SOO  COUSIN  PONS 

and  the  terrible  Presidente ;  he  knew  all  about  those  suave 
modulations  of  a  naturally  sharp  voice.  He  thought  of 
another  President,  the  hero  of  an  anecdote  related  by  Louis 
XI.,  stamped  by  that  monarch's  final  phrase.  Blessed  with 
a  wife  after  the  pattern  of  Socrates'  spouse,  and  ungifted 
with  the  sage's  philosophy,  he  mingled  salt  with  the  corn 
in  the  mangers  and  forbade  the  grooms  to  give  water  to  the 
horses.  As  his  wife  rode  out  along  the  Seine  towards  their 
country-house,  the  animals  bolted  into  the  river  with  the  lady, 
and  the  magistrate  returned  thanks  to  Providence  for  ridding 
him  of  his  wife  "  in  so  natural  a  manner."  At  this  present 
moment  Mme.  de  Marville  thanked  Heaven  for  placing  at 
Pons's  bedside  a  woman  so  likely  to  get  him  "  decently  "  out 
of  the  way. 

Aloud  she  said,  "  I  would  not  take  a  million  at  the  price 
of  a  single  scruple. — Your  friend  ought  to  speak  to  M.  Pons 
and  have  the  woman  sent  away." 

"  In  the  first  place,  Madame,  Messrs.  Schmucke  and  Pons 
think  the  woman  an  angel;  they  would  send  my  friend  away. 
And  secondly,  the  doctor  lies  under  an  obligation  to  this 
horrid  oyster-woman ;  she  called  him  in  to  attend  M.  Pille- 
rault.  When  he  tells  her  to  be  as  gentle  as  possible  with 
the  patient,  he  simply  shows  the  creature  how  to  make  matters 
worse." 

"  What  does  your  friend  think  of  my  cousin's  condition.?  " 

This  man's  clear,  business-hke  way  of  putting  the  facts 
of  the  case  frightened  Mme.  de  Marville ;  she  felt  that  his 
keen  gaze  read  the  thoughts  of  a  heart  as  greedy  as  La 
Cibot's  own. 

"  In  six  weeks  the  property  will  change  hands." 

The  Presidente  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  Poor  man !  "  she  sighed,  vainly  striving  after  a  dolorous 
expression. 

"  Have  you  any  message,  Madame,  for  M.  Leboeuf .?  I 
am  taking  the  train  to  Mantes." 

"Yes.  Wait  a  moment,  and  I  will  write  to  ask  him  to 
dine  with  us  to-morrow.  I  want  to  see  him,  so  that  we  may 
act  in  concert  to  repair  the  injustice  to  which  you  have 
fallen  a  victim." 


COUSIN  PONS  201 

The  Presldenle  left  the  room.  Fraisier  saw  himself  a 
justice  of  the  peace.  He  felt  transformed  at  the  thought; 
he  grew  stouter ;  his  lungs  were  filled  with  the  breath  of 
success,  the  breeze  of  prosperity.  He  dipped  into  the  mys- 
terious reservoirs  of  volition  for  fresh  and  strong  doses  of 
the  divine  essence.  To  reach  success,  he  felt,  as  Remonencq 
had  felt,  that  he  was  ready  for  anything,  for  crime  itself, 
provided  that  no  proofs  of  it  remained.  He  had  faced  the 
Presidente  boldly ;  he  had  transmuted  conjecture  into  reality ; 
he  had  made  assertions  right  and  left,  all  to  the  end  that 
she  might  authorize  him  to  protect  her  interests  and  win 
her  influence.  As  he  stood  there,  he  represented  the  infinite 
misery  of  two  lives,  and  the  no  less  boundless  desires  of  two 
men.  He  spurned  the  squalid  horrors  of  the  Rue  de  la  Perle. 
He  saw  the  glitter  of  a  thousand  crowns  in  fees  from  La 
Cibot,  and  five  thousand  francs  from  the  Presidente.  This 
meant  an  abode  such  as  befitted  his  future  prospects. 
Finally,  he  was  repaying  Dr.  Poulain. 

There  are  hard,  ill-natured  beings,  goaded  by  distress 
or  disease  into  active  malignity,  that  yet  entertain  diamet- 
rically opposed  sentiments  with  a  like  degree  of  vehemence. 
If  Richelieu  was  a  good  hater,  he  was  no  less  a  good  friend. 
Fraisier,  in  his  gratitude,  would  have  let  himself  be  cut  in 
two  for  Poulain. 

So  absorbed  was  he  in  these  visions  of  a  comfortable  and 
prosperous  life,  that  he  did  not  see  the  Presidente  come  in 
with  the  letter  in  her  hand,  and  she,  looking  at  him,  thought 
him  less  ugly  now  than  at  first.  He  was  about  to  be  useful 
to  her,  and  as  soon  as  a  tool  belongs  to  us  we  look  upon 
it  with  other  eyes. 

"  M.  Fraisier,"  said  she,  "  you  have  convinced  me  of  your 
intelligence,  and  I  think  that  you  can  speak  frankly." 

Fraisier  replied  by  an  eloquent  gesture. 

"  Very  well,"  continued  the  lady,  "  I  must  ask  you  to 
give  a  candid  reply  to  this  question :  Are  we,  either  of  us, 
M.  de  Marville  or  I,  likely  to  be  compromised,  directly  or 
indirectly,  by  your  action  in  this  matter?  " 

"  I  would  not  have  come  to  you,  Madame,  if  I  thought 
that  some  day  I  should  have  to  reproach  myself  for  bringing 


502  COUSIN  PONS 

so  much  as  a  splash  of  mud  upon  you,  for  In  your  position 
a  speck  the  size  of  a  pin's  head  is  seen  by  all  the  world. 
You  forget,  Madame,  that  I  must  satisfy  you  if  I  am  to  be 
a  justice  of  the  peace  in  Paris.  I  have  received  one  lesson 
at  the  outset  of  my  life ;  it  was  so  sharp  that  I  do  not  care 
to  lay  myself  open  to  a  second  thrashing.  To  sum  it  up 
in  a  last  word,  Madame,  I  will  not  take  a  step  in  which  you 
are  directly  involved  without  previously  consulting  you " 

"  Very  good.  Here  is  the  letter.  And  now  I  shall  expect 
to  be  informed  of  the  exact  value  of  the  estate." 

"  There  is  the  whole  matter,"  said  Fraisier  shrewdly, 
making  his  bow  to  the  Presidente  with  as  much  graciousness 
as  his  countenance  could  exhibit. 

"  What  a  providence ! "  thought  Mme.  Camusot  de  Mar- 
ville.  "  So  I  am  to  be  rich !  Camusot  will  be  sure  of  his 
election  if  we  let  loose  this  Fraisier  upon  the  Bolbec  con- 
stituency.    What  a  tool !  " 

"  What  a  providence ! "  Fraisier  said  to  himself  as  he 
descended  the  staircase ;  "  and  what  a  sharp  woman  Mme. 
Camusot  is !  I  should  want  a  woman  in  these  circumstances. 
Now  to  work! " 

And  he  departed  for  Mantes  to  gain  the  good  graces  of  a 
man  he  scarcely  knew ;  but  he  counted  upon  Mme.  Vatinelle, 
to  whom,  unfortunately,  he  owed  all  his  troubles — and  some 
troubles  are  of  a  kind  that  resemble  a  protested  bill  while 
the  defaulter  is  yet  solvent,  in  that  they  bear  interest. 

Three  days  afterwards,  while  Schmucke  slept  (for  in 
accordance  with  the  compact  he  now  sat  up  at  night  with 
the  patient),  La  Cibot  had  a  "tiff,"  as  she  was  pleased 
to  call  it,  with  Pons.  It  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  call 
attention  to  one  particularly  distressing  symptom  of  liver 
complaint.  The  sufferer  is  always  more  or  less  incHned 
to  impatience  and  fits  of  anger;  an  outburst  of  this  kind 
seems  to  give  relief  at  the  time,  much  as  a  patient  while  the 
fever  fit  is  upon  him  feels  that  he  has  boundless  strength; 
but  collapse  sets  in  so  soon  as  the  excitement  passes  off,  and 
the  full  extent  of  mischief  sustained  by  the  system  is  dis- 
cernible. This  is  especially  the  case  when  the  disease  has 
been  induced  by  some  great  shock;  and  the  prostration  is 


COUSIN  PONS  203 

so  much  the  more  dangerous  because  the  patient  is  kept  upon 
a  restricted  diet.  It  is  a  kind  of  fever  affecting  neither 
the  blood  nor  the  brain,  but  the  humoristic  mechanism, 
fretting  the  whole  system,  producing  melancholy,  in  which 
the  patient  hates  himself;  in  such  a  crisis  anything  may 
cause  dangerous   irritation. 

In  spite  of  all  that  the  doctor  could  say,  La  Cibot  had 
no  belief  in  this  wear  and  tear  of  the  nervous  system  by  the 
humoristic.  She  was  a  woman  of  the  people,  without  ex- 
perience or  education ;  Dr.  Poulain's  explanations  for  her 
were  simply  "  doctors'  notions."  Like  most  of  her  class,  she 
thought  that  sick  people  must  be  fed,  and  nothing  short  of 
Dr.  Poulain's  direct  order  prevented  her  from  adminis- 
tering ham,  a  nice  omelette,  or  vanilla  chocolate  upon  the 
sly. 

"  Give  M.  Pons  one  single  mouthful  of  any  solid  food 
whatsoever,  and  you  will  kill  him  as  surely  as  if  you  put 
a  bullet  through  him,"  he  said. 

The  infatuation  of  the  working  classes  on  this  point  is 
very  strong.  The  reason  of  their  reluctance  to  enter  a 
hospital  is  the  idea  that  they  will  be  starved  there.  The 
mortality  caused  by  the  food  smuggled  in  by  the  wives  of 
patients  on  visiting-days  was  at  one  time  so  great  that  the 
doctors  were  obliged  to  institute  a  very  strict  search  for 
contraband  provisions. 

If  La  Cibot  was  to  realize  her  profits  at  once,  a  momentary 
quarrel  must  be  worked  up  in  some  way.  She  began  by 
telling  Pons  about  her  visit  to  the  theater,  not  omitting  her 
passage  of  arms  with  Mile.  Heloise,  the  dancer. 

"  But  why  did  you  go  ?  "  the  invalid  asked  for  the  third 
time.  La  Cibot  once  launched  on  a  stream  of  words,  he 
was  powerless  to  stop  her. 

"  So,  then,  when  I  had  given  her  a  piece  of  my  mind, 
Mile.  Heloise  saw  who  I  was  and  knuckled  under,  and  we 
were  the  best  of  friends. — And  now  do  you  ask  me  why  I 
went.?"  she  added,  repeating  Pons's  question. 

There  are  certain  babblers,  babblers  of  genius  are  they, 
who  sweep  up  interruptions,  objections,  and  observations  in 
this  way  as  they  go  along,  by  way  of  provision  to  swell 


!204  COUSIN  PONS 

the  matter  of  their  conversation,  as  if  that  source  were  ever 
in  any  danger  of  running  dry. 

"  Why  I  went  ?  "  repeated  she.  "  I  went  to  get  your 
M.  Gaudissart  out  of  a  fix.  He  wants  some  music  for  a 
ballet,  and  you  are  hardly  fit  to  scribble  on  sheets  of  paper 
and  do  your  work,  dearie. — So  I  understood,  things  being 
so,  that  a  M.  Garangeot  was  to  be  asked  to  set  the  Mohicans 
to  music " 

"Garangeot!"  roared  Pons  in  fury.  "Garangeot!  a 
man  with  no  talent;  I  would  not  have  liim  for  first  violin! 
He  is  very  clever,  he  is  very  good  at  musical  criticism,  but 
as  to  composing — I  doubt  it !  And  what  the  devil  put  the 
notion  of  going  to  the  tlieater  into  your  head?  " 

"  How  confoundedly  contrairy  the  man  is !  Look  here, 
dearie,  we  mustn't  boil  over  like  milk  on  the  fire !  How 
are  you  to  write  music  in  the  state  that  you  are  in?  Why,  you 
can't  have  looked  at  yourself  in  the  glass !  Will  you  have 
the  glass  and  see?  You  are  nothing  but  skin  and  bone- — 
you  are  as  weak  as  a  sparrow,  and  do  you  think  that  you 
are  fit  to  make  your  notes?  why,  you  would  not  so  much 
as  make  out  mine.  .  .  .  And  that  reminds  me  that  I 
ought  to  go  up  to  the  third-floor  lodger's  that  owes  us 
seventeen  francs ;  it  is  worth  going  to  fetch  is  seventeen 
francs,  for  when  the  chemist  has  been  paid  we  shall  not 
have  twenty  left. — So  I  had  to  tell  M.  Gaudissart  (I  like  that 
name),  a  good  sort  he  seems  to  be, — a  regular  Roger  Bon- 
temps  that  would  just  suit  me. — He  will  never  have  liver 
complaint ! — ^Well,  so  I  had  to  tell  him  how  you  were. — Lord ! 
you  are  not  well,  and  he  has  put  someone  else  in  your  place 
for  a  bit " 

"  Someone  else  in  my  place !  "  cried  Pons  in  a  terrible  voice, 
as  he  sat  upright  in  bed.  Sick  people,  generally  speaking, 
and  those  more  particularly  who  lie  within  the  sweep  of  the 
scythe  of  Death,  chng  to  their  places  with  the  same  passionate 
energy  that  the  beginner  displays  to  gain  a  start  in  life. 
To  hear  that  someone  had  taken  his  place  was  like  a  fore- 
taste of  death  to  the  dying  man. 

"  Why,  the  doctor  told  me  that  I  was  going  on  as  well 
as  possible,"  continued  he ;  "  he  said  that  I  should  soon  be 


COUSIN  PONS  205 

about  again  as  usual.  You  have  killed  me,  mined  me,  mur- 
dered me ! " 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!"  cried  La  Cibot,  "there  you  go!  I 
am  killing  you,  am  I  ?  Mercy  on  us !  these  are  the  pretty 
things  that  you  are  always  telling  M.  Schmucke  when  my 
back  is  turned.  I  hear  all  that  you  say,  that  I  do!  You 
are  a  monster  of  ingratitude." 

"  But  you  do  not  know  that  if  I  am  only  away  for  another 
fortnight,  they  will  tell  me  that  I  have  had  my  day,  that 
I  am  old-fashioned,  out  of  date.  Empire,  rococo,  when  I 
go  back.  Garangeot  will  have  made  friends  all  over  the 
theater,  high  and  low.  He  will  lower  the  pitch  to  suit  some 
actress  that  cannot  sing,  he  will  lick  M.  Gaudissart's  boots ! " 
cried  the  sick  man,  who  clung  to  life.  "  He  has  friends  that 
will  praise  him  in  all  the  newspapers ;  and  when  things  are 
like  that  in  such  a  shop,  Mme.  Cibot,  they  can  find  holes  in 
anybody's  coat.      .      .     .     What  fiend  drove  you  to  do  it.?" 

"  Why !  plague  take  it,  M.  Schmucke  talked  it  over  with 
me  for  a  week.  What  would  you  have.''  You  see  nothing 
but  yourself!  You  are  so  selfish  that  other  people  may  die 
if  you  can  only  get  better. — Why,  poor  M.  Schmucke  has 
been  tired  out  this  month  past !  he  is  tied  by  the  leg,  he  can 
go  nowhere,  he  cannot  give  lessons  nor  take  his  place  at 
the  theater.  Do  you  really  see  nothing.''  He  sits  up  with 
you  at  night,  and  I  take  the  nursing  in  the  day.  If  I  were 
to  sit  up  at  night  with  you,  as  I  tried  to  do  at  first  when 
I  thought  you  were  so  poor,  I  should  have  to  sleep  all  day. 
And  who  would  see  to  the  house  and  look  out  for  squalls! 
Illness  is  illness,  it  cannot  be  helped,  and  here  are  you " 

"  This  was  not  Schmucke's  idea,  it  is  quite  impossible " 

"  That  means  that  it  was  /  who  took  it  into  my  head 
to  do  it,  does  it.?  Do  you  think  that  we  are  made  of  iron? 
Why,  if  M.  Schmucke  had  given  seven  or  eight  lessons  every 
day  and  conducted  the  orchestra  every  evening  at  the  theater 
from  six  o'clock  to  half-past  eleven  at  night,  he  would  have 
died  in  ten  days'  time.  Poor  man,  he  would  give  his  life  for 
you,  and  do  you  want  to  be  the  death  of  him?  By  the 
authors  of  my  days,  I  have  never  seen  a  sick  man  to  match 
you!     Where  are  your  senses?  have  you  put  them  in  pawn? 


206  COUSIN  PONS 

We  are  all  slaving  our  lives  out  for  you;  we  do  all  for  the 
best,  and  you  are  not  satisfied!  Do  you  want  to  drive  us 
raging  mad?  I  myself,  to  begin  with,  am  tired  out  as 
it  is " 

La  Cibot  rattled  on  at  her  ease;  Pons  was  too  angry  to 
say  a  word.  He  writhed  on  his  bed,  painfully  uttering  in- 
articulate sounds ;  the  blow  was  killing  him.  And  at  this 
point,  as  usual,  the  scolding  turned  suddenly  to  tenderness. 
The  nurse  dashed  at  her  patient,  grasped  him  by  the  head, 
made  him  lie  down  by  main  force,  and  dragged  the  blankets 
over  him. 

"  How  anyone  can  get  into  such  a  state ! "  exclaimed  she. 
"  After  all,  it  is  your  illness,  dearie.  That  is  what  good 
M.  Poulain  says.  See  now,  keep  quiet  and  be  good,  my 
dear  little  sonny.  Everybody  that  comes  near  you  worships 
you,  and  the  doctor  himself  comes  to  see  you  twice  a  day. 
What  would  he  say  if  he  found  you  in  such  a  way.''  You 
put  me  out  of  all  patience ;  you  ought  not  to  behave  like  this. 
If  you  have  Ma'am  Cibot  to  nurse  you,  you  should  treat  her 
better.  You  shout  and  you  talk ! — you  ought  not  to  do  it, 
you  know  that.  Talking  irritates  you.  And  why  do  you 
fly  into  a  passion.'^  The  wrong  is  all  on  your  side;  you  are 
are  always  bothering  me.  Look  here,  let  us  have  it  out! 
If  M.  Schmucke  and  I,  who  love  you  like  our  life,  thought 
that  we  were  doing  right — well,  my  cherub,  it  was  right, 
you  may  be  sure." 

"  Schmucke  never  could  have  told  you  to  go  to  the  theater 
without  speaking  to  me  about  it " 

"  And  must  I  wake  him,  poor  dear,  when  he  is  sleeping 
like  one  of  the  blest,  and  call  him  in  as  witness .''  " 

"  No,  no !  "  cried  Pons.  "  If  my  kind  and  loving  Schmucke 
made  the  resolution,  perhaps  I  am  worse  than  I  thought." 
His  eyes  wandered  round  the  room,  dwelling  on  the  beautiful 
things  in  it  with  a  melancholy  look  painful  to  see. 

"  So  I  must  say  good-by  to  my  dear  pictures,  to  all  the 
things  that  have  come  to  be  like  so  many  friends  to  me 
and  to  my  divine  friend  Schmucke?  .  .  .  Oh! 
can  it  be  true?  " 

La   Cibot,   acting  her  heartless   comedy,  held  her  hand- 


COUSIN  PONS  207 

kerchief  to  her  eyes ;  and  at  that  mute  response  the  sufferer 
fell  to  dark  musings — so  sorely  stricken  was  he  by  the  double 
stab  dealt  to  health  and  his  interests  by  the  loss  of  his  post 
and  the  near  prospect  of  death,  that  he  had  no  strength  left 
for  anger.  He  lay,  ghastly  and  wan,  like  a  consumptive 
patient  after  a  wrestling  bout  with  the  Destroyer. 

"  In  M.  Schmucke's  interests,  you  see,  you  would  do  well 
to  send  for  M.  Trognon ;  he  is  the  notary  of  the  quarter 
and  a  very  good  man,"  said  La  Cibot,  seeing  that  her 
victim  was  completely  exhausted. 

"  You  are  always  talking  about  this  Trognon " 

*'  Oh !  he  or  another,  it  is  all  one  to  me,  for  anything  you 
will  leave  me." 

She  tossed  her  head  to  signify  that  she  despised  riches. 
There  was  silence  in  the  room. 

A  moment  later  Schmucke  came  in.  He  had  slept  for 
six  hours,  hunger  awakened  him,  and  now  he  stood  at  Pons's 
bedside  watching  his  friend  without  saying  a  word,  for 
Mme.  Cibot  had  laid  a  finger  on  her  lips. 

"  Hush !  "  she  whispered.  Then  she  rose  and  went  up  to 
add  under  her  breath,  "  He  is  going  off  to  sleep  at  last, 
thank  Heaven !  He  is  as  cross  as  a  red  donkey ! — What 
can  you  expect,  he  is  struggling  with  his  illness " 

"  No,  on  the  contrary,  I  am  very  patient,"  said  the  victim 
in  a  weary  voice  that  told  of  a  dreadful  exhaustion ;  "  but, 
oh !  Schmucke,  my  dear  friend,  she  has  been  to  the  theater 
to  turn  me  out  of  my  place." 

There  was  a  pause.  Pons  was  too  weak  to  say  more. 
La  Cibot  took  the  opportunity  and  tapped  her  head  sig- 
nificantly. "  Do  not  contradict  him,"  she  said  to  Schmucke ; 
"  it  would  kill  him." 

Pons  gazed  into  Schmucke's  honest  face.  "  And  she  says 
that  you  sent  her "  he  continued. 

"  Yes,"  Schmucke  affirmed  heroically.  "  It  had  to  pe. 
Hush! — let  us  safe  your  life.  It  is  absurd  to  vork  and 
train  your  sdrength  gif  you  haf  a  dreasure.  Get  better; 
ve  vill  sell  some  pric-a-prac  und  end  our  tays  kvietly  in  a 
corner  somveres,  mit  kind  Montame  Zipod." 

"  She  has  perverted  you,"  moaned  Pons. 


208  COUSIN  PONS 

Mme.  Cibot  had  taken  up  her  station  behind  the  bed  to 
make  signals  unobserved.  Pons  thought  that  she  had  left 
the  room.     "  She  is  murdering  me,"  he  added. 

"What  is  that.^*  I  am  murdering  you,  am  I?"  cried  La 
Cibot,  suddenly  appearing,  hand  on  hips  and  eyes  aflame. 
*'  I  am  as  faithful  as  a  dog,  and  this  is  all  I  get !  God 
Almighty ! " 

She  burst  into  tears  and  dropped  down  into  the  great 
chair,  a  tragical  movement  which  wrought  a  most  disastrous 
revulsion  in  Pons. 

"  Very  good,"  she  said,  rising  to  her  feet.  The  woman's 
malignant  eyes  looked  poison  and  bullets  at  the  two  friends. 
"  Very  good.  Nothing  that  I  can  do  is  right  here,  and  I 
am  tired  of  slaving  my  life  out.     You  shall  take  a  nurse." 

Pons  and  Schmucke  exchanged  glances  in  dismay. 

"  Oh !  you  may  look  at  each  other  Hke  actors.  I  mean  it. 
I  shall  ask  Dr.  Poulain  to  find  a  nurse  for  you.  And  now 
we  will  settle  accounts.  You  shall  pay  me  back  the  money 
that  I  have  spent  on  you,  and  that  I  would  never  have  asked 
you  for,  I  that  have  gone  to  M.  Pillerault  to  borrow  another 
five  hundred  francs  of  him " 

"  It  ees  his  illness !  "  cried  Schmucke — he  sprang  to  Mme. 
Cibot  and  put  an  arm  round  her  waist — "  haf  batience." 

"  As  for  you,  you  are  an  angel,  I  could  kiss  the  ground 
you  tread  upon,"  said  she.  "  But  M.  Pons  never  liked  me, 
he  always  hated  me.  Besides,  he  thinks  perhaps  that  I  want 
to  be  mentioned  in  his  will " 

"  Hush !  you  xiU  kill  him !  "  cried  Schmucke. 

"  Good-by,  sir,"  said  La  Cibot,  with  a  withering  look  at 
Pons.  "  You  may  keep  well  for  all  the  harm  I  wish  you. 
When  you  can  speak  to  me  pleasantly,  when  you  can  believe 
that  what  I  do  is  done  for  the  best,  I  will  come  back  again. 
Till  then  I  shall  stay  in  my  own  room.  You  were  like  my 
own  child  to  me ;  did  anybody  ever  see  a  child  revolt  against 
its  mother.?  .  .  .  No,  no,  M.  Schmucke,  I  do  not  want 
to  hear  more.  I  will  bring  you  your  dinner  and  wait  upon 
you,  but  you  must  take  a  nurse.     Ask  M.  Poulain  about  it." 

And  out  she  went,  slamming  the  door  after  her  so  violently 
that   the   precious,    fragile   objects   in   the   room   trembled. 


COUSIN  PONS  209 

To  Pons  in  his  torture,  the  rattle  of  china  was  like  the  final 
blow  dealt  by  the  executioner  to  a  victim  broken  on  the  wheel. 

An  hour  later  La  Cibot  called  to  Schmucke  through  the 
door,  telling  him  that  his  dinner  was  waiting  for  him  in 
the  dining-room.  She  would  not  cross  the  threshold.  Poor 
Schmucke  went  out  to  her  with  a  haggard,  tear-stained  face. 

"  Mein  boor  Bons  is  vandering,"  said  he ;  "  he  says  dat 
you  are  ein  pad  voman.  It  ees  his  illness,"  he  added  hastily, 
to  soften  La  Cibot  and  excuse  his  friend. 

"  Oh,  I  have  had  enough  of  his  illness !  Look  here,  he  is 
neither  father,  nor  husband,  nor  brother,  nor  child  of 
mine.  He  has  taken  a  dislike  to  me ;  well  and  good,  that 
is  enough  1  As  for  you,  you  see,  I  would  follow  you  to  the 
end  of  the  world;  but  when  a  woman  gives  her  life,  her 
heart,  and  all  her  savings,  and  neglects  her  husband  (for 
here  has  Cibot  fallen  ill),  and  then  hears  that  she  is  a  Dad 
woman — it  is  coming  it  rather  too  strong,  it  is." 

"Too  sthrong?" 

"  Too  strong,  yes.  Never  mind  idle  words.  Let  us  come 
to  the  facts.  As  to  that,  you  owe  me  for  three  months  at 
a  hundred  and  ninety  francs — that  is  five  hundred  and 
seventy  francs ;  then  there  is  the  rent  that  I  have  paid  twice 
(here  are  the  receipts),  six  hundred  more,  including  rates  and 
the  sou  in  the  franc  for  the  porter — something  under  twelve 
hundred  francs  altogether,  and  with  the  two  thousand  francs 
besides — ^without  interest,  mind  you — the  total  amounts  to 
three  thousand  one  hundred  and  ninety-two  francs.  And 
remember  that  you  will  want  at  least  two  thousand  francs 
before  long  for  the  doctor,  and  the  nurse,  and  the  medicine, 
and  the  nurse's  board.  That  was  why  I  borrowed  a  thousand 
francs  of  M.  Pillerault,"  and  with  that  she  held  up  Gaudis- 
sart's  bank-note. 

It  may  readily  be  conceived  that  Schmucke  listened  to 
this  reckoning  with  amazement,  for  he  knew  about  as  much 
of  business  as  a  cat  knows  of  music. 

"  Montame  Zipod,"  he  expostulated,  "  Bons  haf  lost  his 
head.  Bardon  him,  and  nurse  him  as  pefore,  und  pe  our 
profidence;  I  peg  it  of  you  on  mein  knees,"  and  he  knelt 
before  La  Cibot  and  kissed  the  tormentor's  hands. 


210  COUSIN  PONS 

La  Cibot  raised  Schmucke  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 
*'  Listen,  my  lamb,"  said  she,  "  here  is  Cibot  ill  in  bed ;  I 
have  just  sent  for  Dr.  Poulain.  So  I  ought  to  set  my  affairs 
in  order.  And  what  is  more,  Cibot  saw  me  crying,  and  flew 
into  such  a  passion  that  he  will  not  have  me  set  foot  in  here 
again.  It  is  he  who  wants  the  money ;  it  is  his,  you  see. 
We  women  can  do  nothing  when  it  comes  to  that.  But  if 
you  let  him  have  his  money  back  again — the  three  thousand 
two  hundred  francs — he  will  be  quiet  perhaps.  Poor  man, 
it  is  his  all,  earned  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  the  savings  of 
twenty-six  years  of  life  together.  He  must  have  his  money 
to-morrow ;  there  is  no  getting  round  him. — You  do  not 
know  Cibot ;  when  he  is  angry  he  would  kill  a  man.  Well, 
I  might  perhaps  get  leave  of  him  to  look  after  you  both 
as  before.  Be  easy.  I  will  just  let  him  say  anything  that 
comes  into  his  head.  I  will  bear  it  all  for  love  of  you,  an 
angel  as  you  are." 

"  No,  I  am  cin  boor  man,  dot  lof  his  friend  and  vould  gif 
his  life  to  save  him " 

"  But  the  money .''  "  broke  in  La  Cibot.  "  My  good  M. 
Schmucke,  let  us  suppose  that  you  pay  me  nothing;  you 
will  want  three  thousand  francs,  and  where  are  they  to  come 
from?  Upon  my  word,  do  you  know  what  I  should  do  in 
jour  place?  I  should  not  think  twice,  I  should  just  sell 
seven  or  eight  good-for-nothing  pictures  and  put  up  some 
of  those  instead  that  are  standing  in  your  closet  with  their 
faces  to  the  wall  for  want  of  room.  One  picture  or  another, 
what  difference  does  it  make."^  " 

"Und  vy?" 

"  He  is  so  cunning.  It  is  his  illness,  for  he  is  a  lamb  when 
he  is  well.  He  is  capable  of  getting  up  and  prying  about ; 
and  if  by  any  chance  he  went  into  the  salon,  he  is  so  weak 
that  he  could  not  go  beyond  the  door;  he  would  see  that 
they  were  all  still  there." 

"  Drue ! " 

"  And  when  he  is  quite  well,  we  will  tell  him  about  the  sale. 
And  if  you  wish  to  confess,  throw  it  all  upon  me,  say  that 
you  were  obliged  to  pay  me.  Come!  I  have  a  broad 
back " 


COUSIN  PONS  211 

"  I  cannot  tispose  of  dings  dot  are  not  mine,"  the  good 
German  answered  simply. 

"  Very   well.     I   will  summons   you,  you   and   M.   Pons." 

"  It  vould  kill  him " 

"  Take  your  choice !  Dear  me,  sell  the  pictures  and  tell 
him  about  it  afterwards  .  .  .  you  can  show  him  the 
summons " 

"  Ver'  goot.  Summons  us.  Dot  shall  pe  mine  egscuse. 
I  shall  show  him  der  chudgment." 

Mme.  Cibot  went  down  to  the  court,  and  that  very  day 
at  seven  o'clock  she  called  to  Schmucke.  Schmucke  found 
himself  confronted  with  M.  Tabareau  the  bailiff,  who  called 
upon  him  to  pay.  Schmucke  made  answer,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  and  was  forthwith  summoned,  together  with 
Pons,  to  appear  in  the  county  court  to  hear  judgment  against 
him.  The  sight  of  the  bailiff  and  a  bit  of  stamped  paper 
covered  with  scrawls  produced  such  an  effect  upon  Schmucke, 
that  he  held  out  no  longer. 

"  Sell  die  bictures,"  he  said,  with  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Next  morning,  at  six  o'clock,  Elie  Magus  and  Remonencq 
took  down  the  paintings  of  their  choice.  Two  receipts  for 
two  thousand  five  hundred  francs  were  made  out  in  correct 
form : — 

"  I,  the  undersigned,  representing  M.  Pons,  acknowledge 
the  receipt  of  two  thousand  five  hundred  francs  from  M. 
Elie  Magus  for  the  four  pictures  sold  to  him,  the  said  sum 
being  appropriated  to  the  use  of  M.  Pons.  The  first  picture, 
attributed  to  Diirer,  is  a  portrait  of  a  woman ;  the  second, 
likewise  a  portrait,  is  of  the  Italian  School ;  the  third,  a 
Dutch  landscape  by  Breughel;  and  the  fourth,  a  Holy  Fam- 
ily, by  an  unknown  master  of  the  Florentine  School." 

Remonencq's  receipt  was  worded  in  precisely  the  same 
way ;  a  Greuze,  a  Claude  Lorraine,  a  Rubens,  and  a  Van 
Dyck  being  disguised  as  pictures  of  the  French  and  Flemish 
schools. 

"  Der  monny  makes  me  beleef  dot  the  chimcracks  haf  som 
value,"  said  Schmucke  when  the  five  thousand  francs  were 
paid  over. 


212  COUSIN  PONS 

"  They  are  worth  something,"  said  Remonencq.  "  I  would 
wilHnglj  give  a  hundred  thousand  francs  for  the  lot." 

Remonencq,  asked  to  do  a  trijfling  service,  hung  eight 
pictures  of  the  proper  size  in  the  same  frames,  taking  them 
from  among  the  less  valuable  pictures  in  Schmucke's  bed- 
room. 

No  sooner  was  Elie  Magus  in  possession  of  the  four  great 
pictures  than  he  went,  taking  La  Cibot  with  him,  under 
pretense  of  settling  accounts.  But  he  pleaded  poverty,  he 
found  fault  with  the  pictures,  they  needed  rebacking,  he 
offered  La  Cibot  thirty  thousand  francs  by  way  of  commis- 
sion, and  finally  dazzled  her  with  the  sheets  of  paper  on 
which  the  Bank  of  France  engraves  the  words  "  One  thou- 
sand francs "  in  capital  letters.  Magus  thereupon  con- 
demned Remonencq  to  pay  the  like  sum  to  La  Cibot,  by 
lending  him  the  money  on  the  security  of  his  four  pictures, 
which  he  took  with  him  as  a  guarantee.  So  glorious  were 
they,  that  Magus  could  not  bring  himself  to  part  with  them, 
and  next  day  he  bought  them  of  Remonencq  for  six  thousand 
francs  over  and  above  the  original  price,  and  an  invoice  was 
duly  made  out  for  the  four.  Mme.  Cibot,  the  richer  by 
sixty-eight  thousand  francs,  once  more  swore  her  two  accom- 
plices to  absolute  secrecy.  Then  she  asked  the  Jew's  advice. 
She  wanted  to  invest  the  money  in  such  a  way  that  no  one 
should  know  of  iL 

"  Buy  shares  in  the  Orleans  Railway,"  said  he ;  "  they  are 
thirty  francs  below  par,  you  will  double  your  capital  in  three 
years.  They  will  give  you  scraps  of  paper,  which  you  keep 
safe  in  a  portfolio." 

"  Stay  here,  M.  Magus.  I  will  go  and  fetch  the  man  of 
business  who  acts  for  M.  Pons's  family.  He  wants  to  know 
how  much  you  will  give  for  the  whole  bag  of  tricks  upstairs. 
I  will  go  for  him  now." 

"  If  only  she  were  a  widow ! "  said  Remonencq  when  she 
was  gone.  "  She  would  just  suit  me;  she  will  have  plenty 
of  money  now " 

"  Especially  if  she  puts  her  money  into  the  Orleans  Rail- 
way; she  will  double  her  capital  in  two  years'  time.  I  have 
put  all  my  poor  little  savings  into  it,"  added  the  Jew,  "  for 


,  COUSIN  PONS  213 

my  daughter's  portion. — Come,  let  us  take  a  turn  on  the 
boulevard  until  this  lawyer  arrives." 

"  Cibot  is  very  bad  as  it  is,"  continued  Remonencq ;  "  if 
it  should  please  God  to  take  him  to  Himself,  I  should  have 
a  famous  wife  to  keep  a  shop;  I  could  set  up  on  a  large 
scale " 

"  Good-day,  M.  Fraisier,"  La  Cibot  began  in  an  in- 
gratiating tone  as  she  entered  her  legal  adviser's  office. 
"Why,  what  is  this  that  your  porter  has  been  teUing  me? 
are  you  going  to  move?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Mme.  Cibot.  I  am  taking  the  first  floor 
above  Dr.  Poulain,  and  trying  to  borrow  two  or  three  thou- 
sand francs  so  as  to  furnish  the  place  properly ;  it  is  very 
nice,  upon  my  word;  the  landlord  has  just  papered  and 
painted  it.  I  am  acting,  as  I  told  you,  in  President  de 
Marville's  interests  and  yours.  ...  I  am  not  a  solicitor 
now ;  I  mean  to  have  my  name  entered  on  the  roll  of  barristers, 
and  I  must  be  well  lodged.  A  barrister  in  Paris  cannot  have 
his  name  on  the  rolls  unless  he  has  decent  furniture  and  books 
and  the  like.  I  am  a  doctor  of  law,  I  have  kept  my  terras, 
and  have  powerful  interest  already.  .  .  .  Well,  how 
are  we  getting  on  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  would  accept  my  savings,"  said  La  Cibot. 
"  I  have  put  them  in  the  savings  bank.  I  have  not  much, 
only  three  thousand  francs,  the  fruits  of  twenty-five  years 
of  stinting  and  scraping.  You  might  give  me  a  bill  of  ex- 
change, as  Remonencq  says ;  for  I  am  ignorant  myself,  I 
only  know  what  they  tell  me." 

"  No.  It  is  against  the  rules  of  the  guild  for  a  barrister 
(avocat)  to  put  his  name  to  a  bill.  I  will  give  you  a 
receipt,  bearing  interest  at  five  per  cent,  per  annum,  on  the 
understanding  that  if  I  make  an  income  of  twelve  hundred 
francs  for  you  out  of  old  Pons's  estate  you  will  cancel  it." 

La  Cibot,  caught  in  the  trap,  uttered  not  a  word. 

"  Silence  gives  consent,"  Fraisier  continued.  "  Let  me 
have  it  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Oh !  I  am  quite  willing  to  pay  fees  in  advance,"  said 
La  Cibot ;  "  it  is  one  way  of  making  sure  of  my  money." 


214  COUSIN  PONS 

Fraisier  nodded.  "  How  are  we  getting  on?  "  he  repeated. 
*'  I  saw  Poulain  yesterday ;  you  are  hurrying  your  invalid 
along,  it  seems.  .  .  .  One  more  scene  such  as  yester- 
day's, and  gall-stones  will  form.  Be  gentle  with  him,  my 
dear  Mme.  Cibot,  do  not  lay  up  remorse  for  yourself.  Life 
is  not  too  long." 

"  Just  let  me  alone  with  your  remorse !  Are  you  going 
to  talk  about  the  guillotine  again?  M.  Pons  is  a  contrairy 
old  thing.  You  don't  know  him.  It  is  he  that  bothers  me. 
There  is  not  a  more  crossgrained  man  alive;  his  relations 
are  in  the  right  of  it,  he  is  sly,  revengeful,  and  contrairy. 
M.  Magus  has  come,  as  I  told  you,  and  is  waiting 
to  see  you." 

"  Right !  I  will  be  there  as  soon  as  you.  Your  income 
depends  upon  the  price  the  collection  will  fetch.  If  it 
brings  in  eight  hundred  thousand  francs,  you  shall  have 
fifteen  hundred  francs  a  year.     It  is  a  fortune." 

"  Very  well.  I  will  tell  them  to  value  the  things  on  their 
consciences." 

An  hour  later.  Pons  was  fast  asleep.  The  doctor  had 
ordered  a  soothing  draught,  which  Schmucke  administered, 
all  unconscious  that  La  Cibot  had  doubled  the  dose.  Fraisier, 
Remonencq,  and  Magus,  three  gallows-birds,  were  examining 
the  seventeen  hundred  different  objects  which  formed  the 
old  musician's  collection,  one  by  one. 

Schmucke  had  gone  to  bed.  The  three  kites,  drawn  by 
the  scent  of  a  corpse,  were  masters  of  the  field. 

"  Make  no  noise,"  said  La  Cibot  whenever  Magus  went 
into  ecstasies  or  explained  the  value  of  some  work  of  art 
to  Remonencq.  The  dying  man  slept  on  in  the  neighboring 
room,  while  greed  in  four  different  forms  appraised  the 
treasures  that  he  must  leave  behind,  and  waited  impatiently 
for  him  to  die — a  sight  to  wring  the  heart. 

Three  hours  went  by  before  they  had  finished  the  salon. 

"  On  an  average,"  said  the  grimy  old  Jew,  "  everything 
here  is  worth  a  thousand  francs." 

"  Seventeen  hundred  thousand  francs !  "  exclaimed  Fraisier 
in  bewilderment. 


COUSIN  PONS  215 

"  Not  to  me,"  Magus  answered  promptly,  and  his  eyes 
grew  dull.  "  I  would  not  give  more  than  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  myself  for  the  collection.  You  cannot  tell  how  long 
you  may  keep  a  thing  on  hand.  .  .  .  There  are  master- 
pieces that  wait  ten  years  for  a  buyer,  and  meanwhile  the 
purchase-money  is  doubled  by  compound  interest.  Still,  I 
should  pay  cash." 

"  There  is  stained  glass  in  the  other  room,  as  well  as 
enamels  and  miniatures  and  gold  and  silver  snuflFboxes,"  put 
in  Remonencq. 

"  Can  they  be  seen  ?  "  inquired  Fraisier. 

"  I'll  see  if  he  is  sound  asleep,"  replied  La  Cibot.  She 
made  a  sign,  and  the  three  birds  of  prey  came  in. 

"  There  are  masterpieces  yonder !  "  said  Magus,  indicating 
the  salon,  every  bristle  of  his  white  beard  twitching  as  he 
spoke.  "  But  the  riches  are  here  !  And  what  riches  !  Kings 
have  nothing  more  glorious  in  royal  treasuries." 

Remonencq's  eyes  lighted  up  till  they  glowed  like  carbuncles 
at  the  sight  of  the  gold  snuffboxes.  Fraisier,  cool  and  calm 
as  a  serpent,  or  some  snake-creature  with  the  power  of  rising 
erect,  stood  with  his  viper's  head  stretched  out,  in  such  an 
attitude  as  a  painter  would  choose  for  Mephistopheles.  The 
three  covetous  beings,  thirsting  for  gold  as  devils  thirst  for 
the  dew  of  heaven,  looked  simultaneously,  as  it  chanced,  at 
the  owner  of  all  this  wealth.  Some  nightmare  troubled  Pons  : 
he  stirred,  and  suddenly,  under  the  influence  of  those  diabol- 
ical glances,  he  opened  his  eyes  with  a  shrill  cry. 

"  Thieves !  .  .  .  There  they  are !  .  .  .  Help ! 
Murder!  Help!" 

The  nightmare  was  evidently  still  upon  him,  for  he  sat 
up  in  bed,  staring  before  him  with  blank,  wide-open  eyes, 
and  had  not  power  to  move. 

Elie  Magus  and  Remonencq  made  for  the  door,  but  a 
word  glued  them  to  the  spot. 

"  Magus  here  !     ...     I  am  betrayed !  " 

Instinctively  the  sick  man  had  known  that  his  beloved 
pictures  were  in  danger,  a  thought  that  touched  him  at  least 
as  closely  as  any  dread  for  liimself,  and  he  awoke.  Fraisier 
meanwhile  did  not  stir. 


^16  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Mme.  Cibot!  who  is  that  gentleman?  "  cried  Pons,  shiver- 
ing at  the  sight. 

"Goodness  me!  how  could  I  put  him  out  of  the  door?" 
she  inquired,  with  a  wink  and  gesture  for  Fraisier's  benefit. 
*'  This  gentleman  came  just  a  minute  ago,  from  your  family." 

Fraisier  could  not  conceal  his  admiration  for  La  Cibot. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come  on  behalf  of  Mme.  la 
Presidente  de  Marville,  her  husband,  and  her  daughter,  to 
express  their  regret.  They  learned  quite  by  accident  that 
you  are  ill,  and  they  would  like  to  nurse  you  themselves. 
They  want  you  to  go  to  Marville  and  get  well  there.  Mme. 
la  Vicomtesse  Popinot,  the  little  Cecile  that  you  love  so  much, 
will  be  your  nurse.  She  took  your  part  with  her  mother. 
She  convinced  Mme.  de  Marville  that  she  had  made  a  mis- 
take." 

"  So  my  next-of-kin  have  sent  you  to  me,  have  they?  " 
Pons  exclaimed  indignantly,  "  and  sent  the  best  judge  and 
expert  in  all  Paris  with  you  to  show  you  the  way  ?  Oh ! 
a  nice  commission !  "  he  cried,  bursting  into  wild  laughter. 
"  You  have  come  to  value  my  pictures  and  curiosities,  my 
snuflPboxes  and  miniatures !  .  .  .  Make  your  valuation. 
You  have  a  man  there  who  understands  everything,  and 
more — he  can  buy  everything,  for  he  is  a  millionaire  ten 
times  over.  .  .  .  My  dear  relatives  will  not  have  long 
to  wait,"  he  added  with  bitter  irony,  "  they  have  choked  the 
last  breath  out  of  me.  .  .  .  Ah !  Mme.  Cibot,  you  said 
you  were  a  mother  to  me,  and  you  bring  dealers  into  the 
house,  and  my  competitor  and  the  Camusots,  while  I  am 
asleep !     .     .     .     Get  out,  all  of  you !  " 

The  unhappy  man  was  beside  himself  with  anger  and  fear ; 
he  rose  from  the  bed  and  stood  upright,  a  gaunt,  wasted 
jfigure. 

"  Take  my  arm,  sir,"  said  La  Cibot,  rushing  to  the  rescue, 
lest  Pons  should  fall.  "  Pray  calm  yourself,  the  gentlemen 
are  gone." 

"  I  want  to  see  the  salon  .  .  ."  said  the  death-stricken 
man.  La  Cibot  made  a  sign  to  the  three  ravens  to  take 
flight.  Then  she  caught  up  Pons  as  if  he  had  been  a 
feather,   and  put  him  in  bed  again,  in  spite  of  his   cries. 


COUSIN  PONS  aiT 

When  she  saw  that  he  was  quite  helpless  and  exhausted,  she 
went  to  shut  the  door  on  the  staircase.  The  three  who  had 
done  Pons  to  death  were  still  on  the  landing ;  La  Cibot  told 
them  to  wait.     She  heard  Fraisier  say  to  Magus — 

"  Let  me  have  it  in  writing,  and  sign  it,  both  of  you. 
Undertake  to  pay  nine  hundred  thousand  francs  in  cash  for 
M.  Pons's  collection,  and  we  will  see  about  putting  you  in 
the  way  of  making  a  handsome  profit." 

With  that  he  said  something  to  La  Cibot  in  a  voice  so  low 
that  the  others  could  not  catch  it,  and  went  down  after  the 
two  dealers  to  the  porter's  room. 

"Have  they  gone,  Mme.  Cibot.''"  asked  the  unhappy 
Pons,  when  she  came  back  again. 

"  Gone.?     .     .     .     who.'*  "  asked  she. 

"  Those  men." 

"What  men.?  There,  now!  you  have  seen  men,"  said 
she.  "  You  have  just  had  a  raving  fit;  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
me  you  would  have  gone  out  of  the  window,  and  now  you 
are  still  talking  of  men  in  the  room.  .  .  .  Is  it  always 
to  be  hke  this  ?  " 

"  What!  was  there  not  a  gentleman  here  just  now,  saying 
that  my  relatives  had  sent  him.?  " 

"  Will  you  still  stand  me  out.?  "  said  she.  "  Upon  my 
word,  do  you  know  where  you  ought  to  be  sent.? — To  the 
asylum  at  Charenton.     You  see  men " 

"  Elie  Magus,  Remonencq,  and " 

"  Oh !  as  for  Remonencq,  you  may  have  seen  him,  for  he 
came  up  to  tell  me  that  my  poor  Cibot  is  so  bad  that  I  must 
clear  out  of  this  and  come  down.  My  Cibot  comes  first, 
you  see.  When  my  husband  is  ill,  I  can  think  of  nobody 
else.  Try  to  keep  quiet  and  sleep  for  a  couple  of  hours ; 
I  have  sent  for  Dr.  Poulain,  and  I  will  come  up  with  him. 
Take  a  drink  and  be  good " 

*' Then  was  there  no  one  in  the  room  just  now,  when 
I  waked.?     .     .     ." 

"  No  one,"  said  she.  "  You  must  have  seen  M.  Remonencq 
in  one  of  your  looking-glasses." 

"  You  are  right,  Mme.  Cibot,"  said  Pons,  meek  as  a 
lamb. 


218  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Well,  now  you  are  sensible  again.  .  ,  .  Good-by, 
my  cherub;  keep  quiet,  I  shall  be  back  agam  in  a 
minute." 

When  Pons  heard  the  outer  door  close  upon  her,  he  sum- 
moned up  all  his  remaining  strength  to  rise. 

"  They  are  cheating  me,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  they 
are  robbing  me!  Schmucke  is  a  child  that  would  let  them 
tie  him  up  in  a  sack." 

The  terrible  scene  had  seemed  so  real,  it  could  not  be  a 
dream,  he  thought ;  a  desire  to  throw  light  upon  the  puzzle 
excited  him ;  he  managed  to  reach  the  door,  opened  it  after 
many  efforts,  and  stood  on  the  threshold  of  his  salon. 
There  they  were — his  dear  pictures,  his  statues,  his  Floren- 
tine bronzes,  his  porcelain ;  the  sight  of  them  revived  him. 
The  old  collector  walked  in  his  dressing-gown  along  the 
narrow  spaces  between  the  credence-tables  and  the  sideboards 
that  lined  the  wall ;  his  feet  bare,  his  head  on  fire.  His  first 
glance  of  ownership  told  him  that  everything  was  there ;  he 
turned  to  go  back  to  bed  again,  when  he  noticed  that  a  Greuze 
portrait  looked  out  of  the  frame  that  had  held  Sebastian 
del  Piombo's  Templar.  Suspicion  flashed  across  his  brain, 
making  his  dark  thoughts  apparent  to  him,  as  a  flash  of 
lightning  marks  the  outlines  of  the  cloud-bars  on  a  stormy 
sky.  He  looked  round  for  the  eight  capital  pictures  of  the 
collection ;  each  one  of  them  was  replaced  by  another.  A 
dark  film  suddenly  overspread  his  eyes ;  his  strength  failed 
him ;  he  fell  fainting  upon  the  polished  floor. 

So  heavy  was  the  swoon,  that  for  two  hours  he  lay  as  he 
fell,  till  Schmucke  awoke  and  went  to  see  his  friend,  and 
found  him  lying  unconscious  in  the  salon.  With  endless 
pains  Schmucke  raised  the  half-dead  body  and  laid  it  on  the 
bed ;  but  when  he  came  to  question  the  death-stricken  man, 
and  saw  the  look  in  the  dull  eyes  and  heard  the  vague,  in- 
articulate words,  the  good  German,  so  far  from  losing  his 
head,  rose  to  the  very  heroism  of  friendship.  Man  and  child 
as  he  was,  with  the  pressure  of  despair  came  the  inspiration 
of  a  mother's  tenderness,  a  woman's  love.  He  warmed  towels 
(he  found  towels!),  he  wrapped  them  about  Pons's  hands, 
he  laid  them  over  the  pit  of  the  stomach;  he  took  the  cold, 


COUSIN  PONS  219 

moist  forehead  in  his  hands,  he  summoned  back  life  with  a 
might  of  will  worthy  of  Apollonius  of  Tjana,  laying  kisses 
on  his  friend's  eyelids  like  some  Mary  bending  over  the  dead 
Christ,  in  a  pieta  carved  in  bas-relief  by  some  great  Italian 
sculptor.  The  divine  effort,  the  outpouring  of  one  life  into 
another,  the  work  of  mother  and  of  lover,  was  crowned  with 
success.  In  half  an  hour  the  warmth  revived  Pons ;  he  be- 
came himself  again,  the  hues  of  life  returned  to  his  eyes,  sus- 
pended faculties  gradually  resumed  their  play  under  the 
influence  of  artificial  heat.  Schmucke  gave  him  balm-water 
with  a  little  wine  in  it ;  the  spirit  of  life  spread  through  the 
body ;  intelligence  lighted  up  the  forehead  so  short  a  while 
ago  insensible  as  a  stone;  and  Pons  knew  that  he  had  been 
brought  back  to  life,  by  what  sacred  devotion,  what  might 
of  friendship ! 

"  But  for  you,  I  should  die,"  he  said,  and  as  he  spoke  he 
felt  the  good  German's  tears  falling  on  his  face.  Schmucke 
was  laughing  and  crying  at  once. 

Poor  Schmucke!  he  had  waited  for  those  words  with  a 
frenzy  of  hope  as  costly  as  the  frenzy  of  despair;  and  now 
his  strength  utterly  failed  him,  he  collapsed  like  a  rent 
balloon.  It  was  his  turn  to  fall ;  he  sank  into  the  easy-chair, 
clasped  his  hands,  and  thanked  God  in  fervent  prayer.  For 
him  a  miracle  had  just  been  wrought.  He  put  no  belief  in 
the  efficacy  of  the  prayer  of  his  deeds ;  the  miracle  had  been 
wrought  by  God  in  direct  answer  to  his  cry.  And  yet  that 
miracle  was  a  natural  effect,  such  as  medical  science  often 
records. 

A  sick  man,  surrounded  by  those  who  love  him,  nursed 
by  those  who  wish  earnestly  that  he  should  live,  will  recover 
(other  things  being  equal),  when  another  patient  tended 
by  hirelings  will  die.  Doctors  decline  to  see  unconscious 
magnetism  in  this  phenomenon;  for  them  it  is  the  result 
of  intelligent  nursing,  of  exact  obedience  to  their  orders; 
but  many  a  mother  knows  the  virtue  of  such  ardent  pro- 
jection of  strong,  unceasing  prayer. 

"  My  good  Schmucke " 

"  Say  nodings ;  I  shall  hear  you  mit  mein  heart  .  .  , 
rest,  rest !  "  said  Schmucke,  smiling  at  him. 


220  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Poor  friend,  noble  creature,  child  of  God  living  in  God ! 
.  .  .  The  one  being  that  has  loved  me.  ..."  The 
words  came  out  with  pauses  between  them;  there  was  a  new 
note,  a  something  never  heard  before,  in  Pons's  voice.  All 
the  soul,  so  soon  to  take  flight,  found  utterance  in  the  words 
that  filled  Schmucke  with  happiness  almost  like  a  lover's 
rapture. 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  shall  be  shtrong  as  a  lion.  I  shall  vork 
for  two ! " 

"  Listen,  my  good,  my  faithful,  adorable  friend.  Let  me 
speak,  I  have  not  much  time  left.  I  am  a  dead  man.  I 
cannot  recover  from  these  repeated  shocks." 

Schmucke  was  crying  like  a  child. 

"  Just  listen,"  continued  Pons,  "  and  cry  afterwaids.  As 
a  Christian,  you  must  submit.  I  have  been  robbed.  It  is 
La  Cibot's  doing.  ...  I  ought  to  open  your  eyes  before 
I  go ;  you  know  nothing  of  life.  .  .  .  Somebody  has 
taken  away  eight  of  the  pictures,  and  they  were  worth  a 
great  deal  of  money." 

"  Vorgif  me — I  sold  dem." 

"  You  sold  them?" 

"  Yes,  I,"  said  poor  Sclimucke.  "  Dey  summoned  us  to 
der  court " 

**  Summoned?     .     .     .     Who  summoned  us  ? " 

"  Wait,"  said  Schmucke.  He  went  for  the  bit  of  stamped 
paper  left  by  the  bailiff,  and  gave  it  to  Pons.  Pons  read 
the  scrawl  through  with  close  attention,  then  he  let  the  paper 
drop  and  lay  quite  silent  for  a  while.  A  close  observer  of 
the  work  of  men's  hands,  unheedful  so  far  of  the  workings 
of  the  brain,  Pons  finally  counted  out  the  threads  of  the  plot 
woven  about  him  by  La  Cibot.  The  artist's  fire,  the  intellect 
that  won  the  Roman  scholarship — all  his  youth,  came  back 
to  him  for  a  little. 

"  My  good  Schmucke,"  he  said  at  last,  "  you  must  do  as 
I  tell  you,  and  obey  like  a  soldier.  Listen!  go  downstairs 
into  the  lodge  and  tell  that  abominable  woman  that  I  should 
like  to  see  the  person  sent  to  me  by  my  cousin  the  President ; 
and  that  unless  he  comes,  I  shall  leave  my  collection  to  the 
Musee.     Say  that  a  will  is  in  question." 


COUSIN  PONS  221 

Schmucke  went  on  his  errand;  but  at  the  first  word,  La 
Cibot  answered  by  a  smile. 

"  My  good  M.  Schmucke,  our  dear  invalid  has  had  a 
dehrious  fit;  he  thought  that  there  were  men  in  the  room. 
On  my  word  as  an  honest  woman,  no  one  has  come  from 
the  family." 

Schmucke  went  back  with  this  answer,  which  he  repeated 
word  for  word. 

"  She  is  cleverer,  more  astute  and  cunning  and  wily,  than 
I  thought,"  said  Pons  with  a  smile.  "  She  lies  even  in  her 
room.  Imagine  it !  This  morning  she  brought  a  Jew  here, 
Elie  Magus  by  name,  and  Remonencq,  and  a  third  whom 
I  do  not  know,  more  terrific  than  the  other  two  put  together. 
She  meant  to  make  a  valuation  while  I  was  asleep ;  I  hap- 
pened to  wake,  and  saw  them  all  three,  estimating  the  worth 
of  my  snuffboxes.  The  stranger  said,  indeed,  that  the 
Camusots  had  sent  him  here ;  I  spoke  to  him.  .  .  .  That 
shameless  woman  stood  me  out  that  I  was  dreaming !  .  .  . 
My  good  Schmucke,  it  was  not  a  dream.  I  heard  the  man 
perfectly  plainly ;  he  spoke  to  me.  .  .  .  The  two  dealers 
took  fright  and  made  for  the  door.  ...  I  thought  that 
La  Cibot  would  contradict  herself— the  experiment  failed. 
.  .  .  I  will  lay  another  snare,  and  trap  the  wretched 
woman.  .  .  .  Poor  Schmucke,  you  think  that  La  Cibot 
is  an  angel;  and  for  this  month  past  she  has  been  killing 
me  by  inches  to  gain  her  covetous  ends.  I  would  not  believe 
that  a  woman  who  served  us  faithfully  for  years  could  be  so 
wicked.  That  doubt  has  been  my  ruin.  .  .  .  How  much 
did  the  eight  pictures  fetch.?" 

"  Vife  tausend  vrancs." 

"  Good  Heavens !  they  were  worth  twenty  times  as  much !  " 
cried  Pons ;  "  the  gems  of  the  collection !  I  have  not  time 
now  to  institute  proceedings ;  and  if  I  did,  you  would  figure 
in  court  as  the  dupe  of  those  rascals.  ...  A  lawsuit 
would  be  the  death  of  you.  You  do  not  know  what  justice 
means — a  court  of  justice  is  a  sink  of  iniquity.  .  .  .  At 
the  sight  of  such  horrors,  a  soul  like  yours  would  give  way. 
And  besides,  you  will  have  enough.  The  pictures  cost  me 
forty  thousand  francs.     I  have  had  them  for  thirty-six  years. 


222  COUSIN  PONS 

Oh,  we  have  been  robbed  with  surprising  dexterity. 
I  am  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  I  care  for  nothing  now  but 
thee — for  thee,  the  best  soul  under  the  sun. 

"  I  will  not  have  you  plundered ;  all  that  I  have  is  yours. 
So  you  must  trust  nobody,  Schmucke,  you  that  have  never 
suspected  anyone  in  your  life.  I  know  God  watches  over 
you,  but  He  may  forget  for  one  moment,  and  you  will  be 
seized  like  a  vessel  among  pirates.  .  .  .  La  Cibot  is  a 
monster !  She  is  killing  me ;  and  you  think  her  an  angel ! 
You  shall  see  what  she  is.  Go  and  ask  her  to  give  you 
the  name  of  a  notary,  and  I  will  show  you  her  with  her  hand 
in  the  bag." 

Sclmiucke  listened  as  if  Pons  proclaimed  an  apocalypse. 
Could  so  depraved  a  creature  as  La  Cibot  exist.'*  If  Pons 
was  right,  it  seemed  to  imply  that  there  was  no  God  in  the 
world.      He  went  down  again  to  Mme.  Cibot. 

"  Mein  boor  vriend  Bons  feel  so  ill,"  he  said,  "  dat  he  vish 
to  make  his  vill.     Go  und  pring  ein  nodary." 

This  was  said  in  the  hearing  of  several  persons,  for 
Cibot's  life  was  despaired  of.  Remonencq  and  his  sister, 
two  women  from  neighboring  porters'  lodges,  two  or  three 
servants,  and  the  lodger  from  the  first  floor  on  the  side  next 
the  street,  were  all  standing  outside  in  the  gateway. 

"Oh!  you  can  just  fetch  a  notary  yourself,  and  have 
your  will  made  as  you  please,"  cried  La  Cibot,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes.  "  My  poor  Cibot  is  dying,  and  it  is  no  time 
to  leave  him.  I  would  give  all  the  Ponses  in  the  world  to 
save  Cibot,  that  has  never  given  me  an  ounce  of  unhappiness 
in  these  thirty  years  since  we  were  married." 

And  in  she  went,  leaving  Schmucke  in  confusion. 

"  Is  M.  Pons  really  seriously  ill,  sir?  "  asked  the  first- 
floor  lodger,  one  Jolivard,  a  clerk  in  the  registrar's  office 
at  the  Palais  de  Justice. 

"  He  nearly  died  chust  now,"  said  Schmucke,  with  deep 
sorrow  in  his  voice. 

"  M.  Trognon  lives  near  by  in  the  Rue  Saint-Louis," 
said  M.  Jolivard,  "  he  is  the  notary  of  the  quarter." 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  go  for  him  ?  "  asked  Remonencq. 

"  I    should    pe    fery    glad,"    said    Schmucke ;    "  for    gif 


COUSIN  PONS  223 

Montame  Zipod  cannot  pe  mit  mine  vriend,  I  shall  not  visrh 
to  leaf  him  in  der  shtate  he  is  in " 

"  Mrae.  Cibot  told  us  that  he  was  going  out  of  his  mind,'* 
resumed  Jolivard. 

"  Bons !  out  off  his  mind !  "  cried  Schmucke,  terror-stricken 
by  the  idea.     "  Nefer  vas  he  so  clear  in  der  head     . 
dat  is  chust  der  reason  vy  I  am  anxious  for  him." 

The  little  group  of  persons  listened  to  the  conversation 
with  a  very  natural  curiosity,  which  stamped  the  scene  upon 
their  memories.  Schmucke  did  not  know  Fraisier,  and  could 
not  note  his  satanic  countenance  and  glittering  eyes.  But 
two  words  whispered  by  Fraisier  in  La  Cibot's  ear  had 
prompted  a  daring  piece  of  acting,  somewhat  beyond  La 
Cibot's  range,  it  may  be,  though  she  played  her  part  through- 
out in  a  masterly  style.  To  make  others  believe  that  the 
dying  man  was  out  of  his  mind — it  was  the  very  corner-stone 
of  the  edifice  reared  by  the  petty  lawyer.  The  morning's 
incident  had  done  Fraisier  good  service;  but  for  him,  La 
Cibot  in  her  trouble  might  have  fallen  into  the  snare  inno- 
cently spread  by  Schmucke,  when  he  asked  her  to  send  back 
the  person  sent  by  the  family. 

Remonencq  saw  Dr.  Poulain  coming  towards  them,  and 
asked  no  better  than  to  vanish.  The  fact  was  that  for  the 
last  ten  days  the  Auvergnat  had  been  playing  Providence 
in  a  manner  singularly  displeasing  to  Justice,  which  claims 
the  monopoly  of  that  part.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  rid 
himself  at  all  costs  of  the  one  obstacle  in  his  way  to  happiness, 
and  happiness  for  him  meant  capital  trebled  and  marriage 
with  the  irresistibly  charming  portress.  He  had  watched  the 
little  tailor  drinking  his  herb-tea,  and  a  thought  struck  him. 
He  would  convert  the  ailment  into  mortal  sickness ;  his  stock 
of  old  metals  supplied  him  with  the  means. 

One  morning  as  he  leaned  against  the  door-post,  smoking 
his  pipe  and  dreaming  of  that  fine  shop  on  the  Boulevard 
de  la  Madeleine  where  Mme.  Cibot,  gorgeously  arrayed, 
should  some  day  sit  enthroned,  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  copper 
disc,  about  the  size  of  a  five-franc  piece,  covered  thickly  with 
verdigris.  The  economical  idea  of  using  Cibot's  medicine 
to  clean  the  disc  immediately  occurred  to  him.     He  fastened 


g24  COUSIN  PONS 

the  thing  to  a  bit  of  twine,  and  came  over  every  morning  to 
inquire  for  tidings  of  his  friend  the  tailor,  timing  his  visit 
during  La  Cibot's  visit  to  her  gentlemen  upstairs.  He 
dropped  the  disc  into  the  tumbler,  allowed  it  to  steep  there 
while  he  talked,  and  drew  it  out  again  by  the  string  when 
he  went  away. 

The  trace  of  tarnisheil  copper,  commonly  called  verdigris, 
poisoned  the  wholesome  draught ;  a  minute  dose  administered 
by  stealth  did  incalculable  mischief.  Behold  the  results  of 
this  criminal  homeopathy  I  On  the  third  day  poor  Cibot's 
hair  came  out,  his  teeth  were  loosened  in  their  sockets,  his 
whole  system  was  deranged  by  a  scarcely  perceptible  trace 
of  poison.  Dr.  Poulain  racked  his  brains.  He  was  enough 
of  a  man  of  science  to  see  that  some  destructive  agent  was 
at  work.  He  privately  carried  off  the  decoction,  analyzed 
it  himself,  but  found  nothing.  It  so  chanced  that  Remonencq 
had  taken  fright  and  omitted  to  dip  the  disc  in  the  tumbler 
that  day. 

Then  Dr.  Poulain  fell  back  on  himself  and  science  and 
got  out  of  the  difficulty  with  a  theory.  A  sedentary  life  in 
a  damp  room ;  a  cramped  position  before  the  barred  window 
— these  conditions  had  vitiated  the  blood  in  the  absence  of 
proper  exercise,  especially  as  the  patient  continually  breathed 
an  atmosphere  saturated  with  the  fetid  exhalations  of  the 
gutter.  The  Rue  de  Normandie  is  one  of  the  old-fashioned 
streets  that  slope  towards  the  middle ;  the  municipal  authori- 
ties of  Paris  as  yet  have  laid  on  no  water  supply  to  flush 
the  central  kennel  which  drains  the  houses  on  either  side,  and 
as  a  result  a  stream  of  filthy  ooze  meanders  among  the 
cobble-stones,  filters  into  the  soil,  and  produces  the  mud 
peculiar  to  the  city.  La  Cibot  came  and  went ;  but  her 
husband,  a  hard-working  man,  sat  day  in  day  out  like  a 
fakir  on  the  table  in  the  window,  till  his  knee-joints  were 
stiffened,  the  blood  stagnated  in  his  body,  and  his  legs  grew 
so  thin  and  crooked  that  he  almost  lost  the  use  of  them. 
The  deep  copper  tint  of  the  man's  complexion  naturally  sug- 
gested that  he  had  been  out  of  health  for  a  very  long  time. 
The  wife's  good  health  and  the  husband's  illness  seemed  to 
the  doctor  to  be  satisfactorily  accounted  for  by  this  theory. 


COUSIN  PONS  225 

"  Then  what  is  the  matter  with  my  poor  Cibot?  "  asked 
the  portress. 

"  My  dear  Mme.  Cibot,  he  is  dying  of  the  porter's  disease," 
said  the  doctor.  "  Incurable  vitiation  of  the  blood  is  evident 
from  the  general  anaemic  condition." 

No  one  had  anything  to  gain  by  a  crime  so  objectless. 
Dr.  Poulain's  first  suspicions  were  effaced  by  this  thought. 
Who  could  have  any  possible  interest  in  Cibot's  death.?  Plis 
wife!' — the  doctor  saw  her  taste  the  herb-tea  as  she  sweetened 
it.  Crimes  which  escape  social  vengeance  are  many  enough, 
and  as  a  rule  they  are  of  this  order — to-wit,  murders  com- 
mitted without  any  startling  sign  of  violence,  without  blood- 
shed, bruises,  marks  of  strangling,  without  any  bungling  of 
the  business,  in  short ;  if  there  seems  to  be  no  motive  for  the 
crime,  it  most  likely  goes  unpunished,  especially  if  the  death 
occurs  among  the  poorer  classes.  Murder  is  almost  always 
denounced  by  its  advanced  guards,  by  hatred  or  greed  well 
known  to  those  under  whose  eyes  the  whole  matter  has 
passed. 

But  in  the  case  of  the  Cibots  no  one  save  the  doctor  had  any 
interest  in  discovering  the  actual  cause  of  death.  The  little 
copper-faced  tailor's  wife  adored  her  husband ;  he  had  no 
money  and  no  enemies ;  La  Cibot's  fortune  and  the  marine- 
store-dealer's  motives  were  alike  hidden  in  the  shade.  Poulain 
knew  the  portress  and  her  way  of  thinking  perfectly  well; 
he  thought  her  capable  of  tormenting  Pons,  but  he  saw  that 
she  had  neither  motive  enough  nor  wit  enough  for  murder ; 
and  besides — every  time  the  doctor  came  and  she  gave  her 
husband  a  draught,  she  took  a  spoonful  herself.  Poulain 
himself,  the  only  person  who  might  have  thrown  light  on 
the  matter,  inclined  to  believe  that  this  was  one  of  the  un- 
accountable freaks  of  disease,  one  of  the  astonishing  ex- 
ceptions which  make  medicine  so  perilous  a  profession.  And 
in  truth,  the  little  tailor's  unwholesome  life  and  insanitary 
surroundings  had  unfortunately  brought  him  to  such  a  pass 
that  the  trace  of  copper-poisoning  was  like  the  last  straw. 
Gossips  and  neighbors  took  it  upon  themselves  to  explain 
the  sudden  death,  and  no  suspicion  of  blame  lighted  upon 
Remonencq. 


226  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Oh !  this  long  time  past  I  have  said  that  M.  Cibot  was 
not  well,"  cried  one. 

"  He  worked  too  hard,  he  did,"  said  another ;  "  he  heated 
his  blood." 

"  He  would  not  listen  to  me,"  put  in  a  neighbor ;  "  I  advised 
him  to  walk  out  of  a  Sunday  and  keep  Saint  ^Monday ;  two 
daj'S  in  the  week  is  not  too  much  for  amusement." 

In  short,  the  gossip  of  the  quarter,  the  tell-tale  voice  to 
which  Justice,  in  the  person  of  the  commissary'  of  police, 
the  king  of  the  poorer  classes,  lends  an  attentive  ear — 
gossip  explained  the  little  tailor's  demise  in  a  perfectly 
satisfactory  manner.  Yet  M.  Poulain's  pensive  air  and  un- 
easy eyes  embarrassed  Remonencq  not  a  little,  and  at  sight 
of  the  doctor  he  offered  eagerly  to  go  in  search  of  M. 
Trognon,  Fraisier's  acquaintance.  Fraisier  turned  to  La 
Cibot  to  say  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  shall  come  back  again  as 
soon  as  the  will  is  made.  In  spite  of  your  sorrow,  you  must 
look  out  for  squalls."  Then  he  slipped  away  like  a  shadow 
and  met  his  friend,  the  doctor. 

"  Ah,  Poulain !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  it  is  all  right.  We  are 
safe !  I  will  tell  you  about  it  to-night !  Look  out  a  post 
that  will  suit  you,  you  shall  have  it !  For  my  own  part, 
I  am  a  justice  of  the  peace.  Tabareau  will  not  refuse  me 
now  for  a  son-in-law.  And  as  for  you,  I  will  undertake  that 
you  shall  marry  Mile.  Vitel,  grand-daughter  of  our  justice 
of  the  peace." 

Fraisier  left  Poulain  reduced  to  dumb  bewilderment  by 
these  wild  words ;  bounced  like  a  ball  into  the  boulevard, 
hailed  an  omnibus,  and  was  set  down  ten  minutes  later  by 
the  modern  coach  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Choiseul.  By 
this  time  it  was  nearly  four  o'clock.  Fraisier  felt  quite  sure 
of  a  word  in  private  with  the  Presidente,  for  officials  seldom 
leave  the  Palais  de  Justice  before  five  o'clock. 

Mme.  de  Mar^^lle's  reception  of  him  assured  Fraisier  that 
jNI.  Leboeuf  had  kept  the  promise  made  to  Mme.  Vatinelle 
and  spoken  favorably  of  the  sometime  attorney  at  ]\Iantes. 
Amelie's  manner  was  almost  caressing.  So  might  the 
Duchesse  de  Montpensier  have  treated  Jacques  Clement. 
The  petty  attorney  was  a  knife  in  her  hand.     But,  when 


COUSIN  PONS  227 

Fraisler  produced  the  joint-letter  signed  by  Elie  Magus  and 
Remonencq  offering  the  sum  of  nine  hundred  thousand  francs 
in  cash  for  Pons's  collection,  then  the  Presidente  looked  at 
her  man  of  business  and  the  gleam  of  the  money  flashed  from 
her  eyes.     That  ripple  of  greed  reached  the  attorney. 

"  M.  le  President  left  a  message  with  me,"  she  said ;  "  he 
hopes  that  you  will  dine  with  us  to-morrow.  It  will  be  a 
family  party.  M.  Godeschal,  Desroche's  successor  and  my 
attorney,  will  come  to  meet  you,  and  Berthier,  our  notary, 
and  my  daughter  and  son-in-law.  After  dinner,  you  and  I 
and  the  notary  and  attorney  will  have  the  little  consultation 
for  which  you  ask,  and  I  will  give  you  full  powers.  The 
two  gentlemen  will  do  as  you  require  and  act  upon  your 
inspiration ;  and  see  that  everything  goes  well.  You  shall 
have  a  power  of  attorney  from  M.  de  Marville  as  soon  as 
you  want  it." 

"  I  shall  want  it  on  the  day  of  the  decease." 

"  It  shall  be  in  readiness." 

"  Mme.  la  Presidente,  if  I  ask  for  a  power  of  attorney, 
and  would  prefer  that  your  attorney's  name  should  not 
appear,  I  wish  it  less  in  my  own  interest  than  in  yours. 
.  When  I  give  myself,  it  is  without  reserve.  And 
in  return,  Madame,  I  ask  the  same  fidelity ;  I  ask  my  patrons 
(I  do  not  venture  to  call  you  my  clients)  to  put  the  same 
confidence  in  me.  You  may  think  that  in  acting  thus  I  am 
trying  to  fasten  upon  this  affair — no,  no,  Madame ;  there 
may  be  reprehensible  things  done ;  with  an  inheritance  in 
view  one  is  dragged  on  .  .  .  especially  with  nine  hundred 
thousand  francs  in  the  balance.  Well  now,  you  could  not 
disavow  a  man  like  Maitre  Godeschal,  honesty  itself,  but  you 
can  throw  all  the  blame  on  the  back  of  a  miserable  petti- 
fogging lawyer " 

Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville  looked  admiringly  at  Fraisler. 

"  You  ought  to  go  very  high,"  said  she,  "  or  sink  very 
low.  In  your  place,  instead  of  asking  to  hide  myself  away 
as  a  justice  of  the  peace,  I  would  aim  at  a  crown  attorney's 
appointment — at,  say.  Mantes  ! — and  make  a  great  career 
for  myself." 

*'  Let  me  have  my  way,  Madame.     The  post  of  justice  of 


228  COUSIN  PONS 

the  peace  is  an  ambling  pad  for  M.  Vitel;  for  me  it  shall 
be  a  war-horse." 

And  in  this  way  the  Presidente  proceeded  to  a  final  con- 
fidence. 

"  You  seem  to  be  so  completely  devoted  to  our  interests," 
she  began,  "  that  I  will  tell  you  about  the  difficulties  of  our 
position  and  our  hopes.  The  President's  great  desire,  ever 
since  a  match  was  projected  between  his  daughter  and  an 
adventurer  who  recently  started  a  bank, — the  President's 
wish,  I  say,  has  been  to  round  out  the  Marville  estate  with 
some  grazing  land,  at  that  time  in  the  market.  We  dis- 
possessed ourselves  of  fine  property,  as  you  know,  to  settle 
it  upon  our  daughter;  but  I  wish  very  much,  my  daughter 
being  an  only  child,  to  buy  all  that  remains  of  the  grass 
land.  Part  has  been  sold  already.  The  estate  belongs  to  an 
Englishman  who  is  returning  to  England  after  a  twenty 
years'  residence  in  France.  He  built  the  most  charming 
cottage  in  a  delightful  situation,  between  Marville  Park  and 
the  meadows  which  once  were  part  of  the  Marville  lands; 
he  bought  up  covers,  copse,  and  gardens  at  fancy  prices  to 
make  the  grounds  about  the  cottage.  The  house  and  its 
surroundings  make  a  feature  of  the  landscape,  and  it  lies 
clase  to  my  daughter's  park  palings.  The  whole,  land  and 
house,  should  be  bought  for  seven  hundred  thousand  francs, 
for  the  net  revenue  is  about  twenty  thousand  francs. 
But  if  Mr.  Wadman  finds  out  that  we  think  of  buying  it, 
he  is  sure  to  add  another  two  or  three  hundred  thousand 
francs  to  the  price ;  for  he  will  lose  money  if  the  house  counts 
for  nothing,  as  it  usually  does  when  you  buy  land  in  the 
country " 

"  Why,  Madame,"  Fraisier  broke  in,  "  in  my  opinion  you 
can  be  so  sure  that  the  inheritance  is  yours  that  I  will  offer 
to  act  the  part  of  purchaser  for  you.  I  will  undertake  that 
you  shall  have  the  land  at  the  best  possible  price,  and  have 
a  written  engagement  made  out  under  private  seal,  like  a 
contract  to  deliver  goods.  ...  I  will  go  to  the  English- 
man in  the  character  of  buyer.  I  imderstand  that  sort  of 
thing;  it  was  my  specialty  at  Mantes.  Vatinelle  doubled 
the  value  of  liis  practice,  while  I  worked  in  his  name." 


COUSIN  PONS  229 

"  Hence  jour  connection  with  little  Mme.  Vatinelle.  He 
must  be  very  well  off " 

"  But  Mme.  Vatinelle  has  expensive  tastes,  ...  So 
be  easy,  Madame — I  will  serve  you  up  the  Englishman  done 
to  a  turn " 

"  If  you  can  manage  that  you  will  have  eternal  claims  to 
my  gratitude.  Good-day,  my  dear  M.  Fraisier.  Till  to- 
morrow  " 

Fraisier  went.  His  parting  bow  was  a  degree  less  cringing 
than  on  the  first  occasion. 

"  I  am  to  dine  to-morrow  with  President  de  Marville !  "  he 
said  to  himself.  "  Come  now,  I  have  these  folk  in  my  power. 
Only,  to  be  absolute  master,  I  ought  to  be  the  German's  legal 
adviser  in  the  person  of  Tabareau,  the  justice's  clerk. 
Tabareau  will  not  have  me  now  for  his  daughter,  his  only 
daughter,  but  he  will  give  her  to  me  when  I  am  a  justice 
of  the  peace.  I  shall  be  eligible.  Mile.  Tabareau,  that  tall 
consumptive  girl  with  the  red  hair,  has  a  house  in  the  Place 
Royale  in  right  of  her  mother.  At  her  father's  death  she 
is  sure  to  come  in  for  six  thousand  livres  per  annum  as  well. 
She  is  not  handsome ;  but,  good  Lord,  if  you  step  from 
nothing  at  all  to  an  income  of  eighteen  thousand  francs,  you 
must  not  look  too  hard  at  the  plank." 

As  he  went  back  to  the  Rue  de  Normandie  by  way  of  the 
boulevards,  he  dreamed  out  his  golden  dream ;  he  gave  himself 
up  to  the  happiness  of  the  thought  that  he  should  never 
know  want  again.  He  would  marry  his  friend  Poulain  to 
Mile.  Vitel,  the  daughter  of  the  justice  of  the  peace;  to- 
gether, he  and  his  friend,  the  doctor,  would  reign  like  kings 
in  the  quarter ;  he  would  carry  all  the  elections — municipal, 
military,  or  political.  The  boulevards  seem  short  if,  while 
you  pace  afoot,  you  mount  your  ambition  on  the  steed  of 
fancy  in  this  way. 

Schmucke  meanwhile  went  back  to  his  friend  Pons  with 
the  news  that  Cibot  was  dying,  and  Remonencq  gone  in 
search  of  M.  Trognon,  the  notary.  Pons  was  struck  by 
the  name.  It  had  come  up  again  and  again  in  La  Cibot's 
interminable  talk,  and  La  Cibot  always  recommended  him 
as  honesty  incarnate.     And  with  that  a  luminous  idea  oc- 


^30  COUSIN  PONS 

curred  to  Pons,  in  whom  mistrust  had  grown  paramount  since 
the  morning,  an  idea  which  completed  his  plan  for  outwitting 
La  Cibot  and  unmasking  her  completely  for  the  too  credulous 
Schmucke. 

So  many  unexpected  things  had  happened  that  day  that 
poor  Schmucke  was  quite  bewildered.  Pons  took  his  friend's 
hand. 

"  There  must  be  a  good  deal  of  confusion  in  the  house, 
Schmucke;  if  the  porter  is  at  death's  door,  we  are  almost 
free  for  a  minute  or  two;  that  is  to  say,  there  will  be  no 
spies — for  we  are  watched,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  Go 
out,  take  a  cab,  go  to  the  theater,  and  tell  Mile.  Brisetout 
that  I  should  like  to  see  her  before  I  die.  Ask  her  to  come 
here  to-night  when  she  leaves  the  theater.  Then  go  to  your 
friends  Brunner  and  Schwab  and  beg  them  to  come  to-morrow 
morning  at  nine  o'clock  to  inquire  after  me;  let  them  come 
up  as  if  they  were  just  passing  by  and  called  in  to  see  me." 

The  old  artist  felt  that  he  was  dying,  and  this  was  the 
scheme  that  he  forged.  He  meant  Schmucke  to  be  his  uni- 
versal legatee.  To  protect  Schmucke  from  any  possible 
legal  quibbles  he  proposed  to  dictate  his  will  to  a  notary 
in  the  presence  of  witnesses,  lest  his  sanity  should  be  called 
in  question  and  the  Camusots  should  attempt  upon  that  pre- 
text to  dispute  the  will.  At  the  name  of  Trognon  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  machinations  of  some  kind ;  perhaps  a  flaw 
purposely  inserted,  or  premeditated  treachery  on  La  Cibot's 
part.  He  would  prevent  this.  Trognon  should  dictate  a 
holograph  will  which  should  be  signed  and  deposited  in  a 
sealed  envelope  in  a  drawer.  Then  Schmucke,  hidden  in  one 
of  the  cabinets  in  his  alcove,  should  see  La  Cibot  search  for 
the  will,  find  it,  open  the  envelope,  read  it  through,  and  seal 
it  again.  Next  morning,  at  nine  o'clock,  he  would  cancel 
the  will  and  make  a  new  one  in  the  presence  of  two  notaries, 
everything  in  due  form  and  order.  La  Cibot  had  treated 
him  as  a  madman  and  a  visionary ;  he  saw  what  this  meant — 
he  saw  the  Presidente's  hate  and  greed,  her  revenge  in  La 
Cibot's  behavior.  In  the  sleepless  hours  and  lonely  days 
of  the  last  two  months,  the  poor  man  had  sifted  the  events 
of  his  past  life. 


COUSIN  PONS  231 

It  has  been  the  wont  of  sculptors,  ancient  and  modern, 
to  set  a  tutelary  genius  with  a  lighted  torch  upon  either 
side  of  a  tomb.  Those  torches  that  light  up  the  paths 
of  death  throw  light  for  dying  eyes  upon  the  spectacle  of 
a  life's  mistakes  and  sins ;  the  carved  stone  figures  express 
great  ideas,  they  are  symbols  of  a  fact  in  human  experience. 
The  agony  of  death  has  its  own  wisdom.  Not  seldom  a 
simple  girl,  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  will  grow  wise  with 
the  experience  of  a  hundred  years,  will  gain  prophetic  vision, 
judge  her  family,  and  see  clearly  through  all  pretenses,  at 
the  near  approach  of  Death.  Herein  lies  Death's  poetry. 
But,  strange  and  worthy  of  remark  it  is,  there  are  two 
manners  of  death. 

The  poetry  of  prophecy,  the  gift  of  seeing  clearly  into 
the  future  or  the  past,  only  belongs  to  those  whose  bodies 
are  stricken,  to  those  who  die  by  the  destruction  of  the 
organs  of  physical  life.  Consumptive  patients,  for  instance, 
or  those  who  die  of  gangrene  like  Louis  XIV.,  of  fever  like 
Pons,  of  a  stomach  complaint  like  Mme.  de  Mortsauf,  or  of 
wounds  received  in  the  full  tide  of  life  like  soldiers  on  the 
battlefield — all  these  may  possess  this  supreme  lucidity  to 
the  full ;  their  deaths  fill  us  with  surprise  and  wonder.  But 
many,  on  the  other  hand,  die  of  intelligential  diseases,  as  they 
may  be  called;  of  maladies  seated  in  the  brain  or  in  that 
nervous  system  which  acts  as  a  kind  of  purveyor  of  thought 
fuel — and  these  die  wholly,  body  and  spirit  are  darkened 
together.  The  former  are  spirits  deserted  by  the  body, 
realizing  for  us  our  ideas  of  the  spirits  of  Scripture;  the 
latter  are  bodies  untenanted  by  a  spirit. 

Too  late  the  virgin  nature,  the  epicure-Cato,  the  righteous 
man  almost  without  sin,  was  discovering  the  Presidente's 
real  character — the  sac  of  gall  that  did  duty  for  her  heart. 
He  knew  the  world  now  that  he  was  about  to  leave  it,  and 
for  the  past  few  hours  he  had  risen  gayly  to  his  part,  like 
a  joyous  artist  finding  a  pretext  for  caricature  and  laughter 
in  everything.  The  last  links  that  bound  him  to  life,  the 
chains  of  admiration,  the  strong  ties  that  bind  the  art-lover 
to  Art's  masterpieces,  had  been  snapped  that  morning.  When 
Pons  knew  that  La  Cibot  had  robbed  him,  he  bade  farewell,, 


232  COUSIN  PONS 

like  a  Christian,  to  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  Art,  to  his 
collection,  to  all  his  old  friendships  with  the  makers  of  so 
many  fair  things.  Our  forefathers  counted  the  day  of  death 
as  a  Christian  festival,  and  in  something  of  the  same  spirit 
Pons's  thoughts  turned  to  the  coming  end.  In  his  tender 
love  he  tried  to  protect  Schmucke  when  he  should  be  low  in 
the  grave.  It  was  this  father's  thought  that  led  him  to  fix 
his  choice  upon  the  leading  ladj  of  the  ballet.  Mile.  Brisetout 
should  help  him  to  baffle  surrounding  treachery,  and  those 
who  in  all  probability  would  never  forgive  his  innocent  uni- 
versal legatee. 

Heloise  Brisetout  was  one  of  the  few^  natures  that  remain 
true  in  a  false  position.  She  was  an  opera-girl  of  the 
school  of  Josepha  and  Jenny  Cadine,  capable  of  playing 
any  trick  on  a  paying  adorer;  yet  she  was  a  good  comrade, 
dreading  no  power  on  earth,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  see 
the  weak  side  of  the  strong  and  to  hold  her  own  with  the 
police  at  the  scarcely  idyllic  Bal  de  Mabille  and  the  carnival. 

"  If  she  asked  for  my  place  for  Garangeot,  she  will  think 
that  she  owes  me  a  good  turn  by  so  much  the  more,"  said 
Pons  to  himself. 

Thanks  to  the  prevailing  confusion  in  the  porter's  lodge, 
Schmucke  succeeded  in  getting  out  of  the  house.  He  re- 
turned with  the  utmost  speed,  fearing  to  leave  Pons  too  long 
alone.  M.  Trognon  reached  the  house  just  as  Schmucke 
came  in.  Albeit  Cibot  was  dying,  his  wife  came  upstairs 
with  the  notary,  brought  him  into  the  bedroom,  and  withdrew, 
leaving  Schmucke  and  Pons  with  M.  Trognon ;  but  she  left 
the  door  ajar,  and  went  no  further  than  the  next  room. 
Providing  herself  with  a  little  hand-glass  of  curious  work- 
manship, she  took  up  her  station  in  the  doorway,  so  that  she 
could  not  only  hear  but  see  all  that  passed  at  the  supreme 
moment. 

"  Sir,"  said  Pons,  "  I  am  in  the  full  possession  of  my 
faculties,  unfortunately  for  me,  for  I  feel  that  I  am  about 
to  die;  and  doubtless,  by  the  will  of  God,  I  shall  be  spared 
nothing  of  the  agony  of  death.  This  is  M.  Schmucke  " — 
(the  notary  bowed  to  M.  Schmucke) — "my  one  friend  on 
earth,"  continued  Pons.     "  I  wish  to  make  him  my  universal 


COUSIN  PONS  233 

legatee.  Now,  tell  me  how  to  word  the  will,  so  that  my 
friend,  who  is  a  German  and  knows  nothing  of  French  law, 
may  succeed  to  my  possessions  without  any  dispute." 

"  Anything  is  liable  to  be  disputed,  sir,"  said  the  notary ; 
"  that  is  the  drawback  of  human  justice.  But  in  the  matter 
of  wills,  there  are  wills  so  drafted  that  they  cannot  be 
upset " 

"  In  what  way  ?  "  queried  Pons. 

*'  If  a  will  is  made  in  the  presence  of  a  notary,  and  before 
witnesses  who  can  swear  that  the  testator  was  in  the  full 
possession  of  his  faculties ;  and  if  the  testator  has  neither 
wife  nor  children,  nor  father  nor  mother " 

"  I  have  none  of  these ;  all  my  affection  is  centered  upon 
my  dear  friend  Schmucke  here." 

The  tears  overflowed  Schmucke's  eyes. 

"  Then,  if  you  have  none  but  distant  relatives,  the  law 
leaves  you  free  to  dispose  of  both  personalty  and  real  estate 
as  you  please,  so  long  as  you  bequeath  them  for  no  unlawful 
purpose ;  for  you  must  have  come  across  cases  of  wills  dis- 
puted on  account  of  the  testator's  eccentricities.  A  will 
made  in  the  presence  of  a  notary  is  considered  to  be  authentic  ; 
for  the  person's  identity  is  established,  the  notary  certifies 
that  the  testator  was  sane  at  the  time,  and  there  can  be  no 
possible  dispute  over  the  signature. — Still,  a  holograph  will, 
properly  and  clearly  worded,  is  quite  as  safe." 

"  I  have  decided,  for  reasons  of  my  own,  to  make  a  holo- 
graph will  at  your  dictation,  and  to  deposit  it  with  my  friend 
here.     Is  this  possible?  " 

"Quite  possible,"  said  the  notary.  "Will  you  write .'^ 
I  will  begin  to  dictate " 

"  Schmucke,  bring  me  my  little  Boule  writing-desk. — 
Speak  low,  sir,"  he  added ;  "  we  may  be  overheard." 

"  Just  tell  me,  first  of  all,  what  you  intend,"  demanded 
the  notary. 

Ten  minutes  later  La  Cibot  saw  the  notary  look  over  the 
will,  while  Schmucke  lighted  a  taper  (Pons  watching  her 
reflection  all  the  while  in  a  mirror).  She  saw  the  envelope 
sealed,  saw  Pons  give  it  to  Schmucke,  and  heard  him  say 
that  it  must  be  put  away  in  a  secret  drawer  in  his  bureau. 


234  COUSIN  PONS 

Then  the  testator  asked  for  the  key,  tied  it  to  the  corner 
of  his  handkerchief,  and  slipped  it  under  his  pillow. 

The  notary  himself,  by  courtesy,  was  appointed  executor. 
To  him  Pons  left  a  picture  of  price,  such  a  thing  as  the 
law  permits  a  notary  to  receive.  Trognon  went  out  and 
came  upon  Mme.  Cibot  in  the  salon. 

"Well,  sir,  did  M.  Pons  remember  me?" 

"  You  do  not  expect  a  notary  to  betray  secrets  confided 
to  him,  my  dear,"  returned  M.  Trognon.  "  I  can  only  tell 
you  this — there  will  be  many  disappointments,  and  some  that 
are  anxious  after  the  money  will  be  foiled.  M.  Pons  has 
made  a  good  and  very  sensible  will,  a  patriotic  will,  which 
I  highly  approve." 

La  Cibot's  curiosity,  kindled  by  such  words,  reached  an 
unimaginable  pitch.  She  went  downstairs  and  spent  the 
night  at  Cibot's  bedside,  inwardly  resolving  that  Mile. 
Remonencq  should  take  her  place  towards  two  or  three  in 
the  morning,  when  she  would  go  up  and  have  a  look  at  the 
document. 

Mile.  Brisetout's  visit  towards  half-past  ten  that  night 
seemed  natural  enough  to  La  Cibot;  but  in  her  terror  lest 
the  ballet-girl  should  mention  Gaudissart's  gift  of  a  thousand 
francs,  she  went  upstairs  with  her,  lavishing  polite  speeches 
and  flattery  as  if  Mile.  Heloise  had  been  a  queen. 

"  Ah !  my  dear,  you  are  much  nicer  here  on  your  own 
ground  than  at  the  theater,"  Heloise  remarked.  "  I  advise 
you  to  keep  to  your  employment." 

Heloise  was  splendidly  dressed.  Bixiou,  her  lover,  had 
brought  her  in  his  carriage  on  the  way  to  an  evening  party 
at  Mariette's.  It  so  fell  out  that  the  first-floor  lodger, 
M.  Chapoulot,  a  retired  braid  manufacturer  from  the  Rue 
Saint-Denis,  returning  from  the  Ambigu-Comique  with  his 
wife  and  daughter,  was  dazzled  by  a  vision  of  such  a  costume 
and  such  a  charming  woman  upon  their  staircase. 

"Who  is  that,  Mme.  Cibot.?"  asked  Mme.  Chapoulot. 

"  A  no-better-than-she-should-be,  a  light-skirts  that  you 
may  see  half-naked  any  evening  for  a  couple  of  francs," 
La  Cibot  answered  in  an  undertone  for  Mme.  Chapoulot's 
ear. 


COUSIN  PONS  235 

"  Victorine !  "  called  the  braid  manufacturer's  wife,  "  let 
the  lady  pass,  child." 

The  matron's  alarm  signal  was  not  lost  upon  Heloise. 

"Your  daughter  must  be  more  inflammable  than  tinder, 
Madame,  if  you  are  afraid  that  she  will  catch  fire  by  touch- 
ing me,"  she  said. 

M.  Chapoulot  waited  on  the  landing.  "  She  is  uncom- 
monly handsome  off  the  stage,"  he  remarked.  Whereupon 
Mme.  Chapoulot  pinched  him  sharply  and  drove  him  in- 
doors. 

"  Here  is  a  second-floor  lodger  that  has  a  mind  to  set 
up  for  being  on  the  fourth  floor,"  said  Heloise  as  she  con- 
tinued to  climb. 

"  But  Mademoiselle  is  accustomed  to  going  higher  and 
higher." 

"  Well,  old  boy,"  said  Heloise,  entering  the  bedroom  and 
catching  sight  of  the  old  musician's  white,  wasted  face. 
"  Well,  old  boy,  so  we  are  not  very  well  ?  Everybody  at 
the  theater  is  asking  after  you ;  but  though  one's  heart  may 
be  in  the  right  place,  everyone  has  his  own  affairs,  you  know, 
and  cannot  find  time  to  go  to  see  friends.  Gaudissart  talks 
of  coming  round  every  day,  and  every  morning  the  tiresome 
management  gets  hold  of  him.  Still,  we  are  all  of  us  fond 
of  you " 

"  Mme.  Cibot,"  said  the  patient,  "  be  so  kind  as  leave 
us ;  we  want  to  talk  about  the  theater  and  my  post  as  con- 
ductor, with  this  lady.  Schmucke,  will  you  go  to  the  door 
with  Mme.  Cibot.?" 

At  a  sign  from  Pons,  Schmucke  saw  Mme.  Cibot  out  at 
the  door,  and  drew  the  bolts. 

"  Ah,  that  blackguard  of  a  German!  Is  he  spoiled  too?  " 
La  Cibot  said  to  herself  as  she  heard  the  significant  sounds. 
"  That  is  M.  Pons's  doing ;  he  taught  him  these  disgusting 
tricks.  .  .  .  But  you  shall  pay  for  this,  my  dears," 
she  thought  as  she  went  down  the  stairs.  "  Pooh !  if  that 
tight-rope  dancer  tells  him  about  the  thousand  francs,  I 
shall  say  that  it  is  a  farce." 

She  seated  herself  by  Cibot's  pillow.  Cibot  complained 
of   a  burning   sensation   in   the   stomach.     Remonencq  had 


236  COUSIN  PONS 

called  in  and  given  him  a  draught  while  his  wife  was  upstairs. 
As  soon  as  Schmucke  had  dismissed  La  Cibot,  Pons  turned 
to  the  ballet-girl. 

"  Dear  child,  I  can  trust  no  one  else  to  find  me  a  notary, 
an  honest  man,  and  send  him  here  to  make  mj  will  to-morrow 
morning  at  half-past  nine  precisely.  I  want  to  leave  all 
that  I  have  to  Schmucke.  If  he  is  persecuted,  poor  German 
that  he  is,  I  shall  reckon  upon  the  notary ;  the  notary  must 
defend  him.  And  for  that  reason  I  must  have  a  very  wealthy 
notary,  highly  thought  of,  a  man  above  the  temptations  to 
which  pettifogging  lawyers  yield.  He  must  succor  my  poor 
friend.  I  cannot  trust  Berthier,  Cardot's  successor.  And 
you  know  so  many  people " 

"  Oh !  I  have  the  very  man  for  you,"  Heloise  broke  in ; 
"  there  is  the  notary  that  acts  for  Florine  and  the  Comtesse 
du  Bruel,  Leopold  Hannequin,  a  virtuous  man  that  does 
not  know  what  a  lorette  is !  He  is  a  sort  of  chance-come 
father — a  good  soul  that  will  not  let  you  play  ducks  and 
drakes  with  your  earnings ;  I  call  him  Le  Pere  aux  Rats, 
because  he  instills  economical  notions  into  the  minds  of  all 
my  friends.  In  the  first  place,  my  dear  fellow,  he  has  a 
private  income  of  sixty  thousand  francs ;  and  he  is  a  notary 
of  the  real  old  sort,  a  notary  while  he  walks  or  sleeps ;  his 
children  must  be  little  notaries  and  notaresses.  He  is  a 
heavy,  pedantic  creature,  and  that's  the  truth ;  but  on  his 
own  ground,  he  is  not  the  man  to  flinch  before  any  power 
in  creation.  .  .  .  No  woman  ever  got  money  out  of 
him ;  he  is  a  fossil  paterfamilias,  his  wife  worships  him  and 
does  not  deceive  him,  although  she  is  a  notary's  wife. — ■ 
What  more  do  you  want.^*  as  a  notary  he  has  not  his  match 
in  Paris.  He  is  in  the  patriarchal  style ;  not  queer  and 
amusing,  as  Cardot  used  to  be  with  Malaga ;  but  he  will 
never  decamp  like  little  What's-his-name  that  lived  with 
Antonia.  So  I  will  send  round  my  man  to-morrow  morning 
at  eight  o'clock.  .  .  .  You  may  sleep  in  peace.  And 
I  hope,  in  the  first  place,  that  you  will  get  better,  and  make 
charming  music  for  us  again ;  and  yet,  after  all,  you  see, 
life  is  very  dreary — managers  chisel  you,  and  kings  mizzle 
and  ministers  fizzle  and  rich  folk  economizzle. — Artists  have 


COUSIN  PONS  2S1 

nothing  left  here  ^'  (tapping  her  breast) — "it  is  a  time  to 
die  in.     Good-by,  old  boy." 

"  Heloise,  of  all  things,  I  ask  you  to  keep  my  counsel." 

"  It  is  not  a  theater  affair,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  sacred  for 
an  artist." 

"Who  is  your  gentleman,  child.''  " 

"  M.  Baudoyer,  the  mayor  of  your  arrondissement,  a 
man  as  stupid  as  the  late  Crevel ;  Crevel  once  financed 
Gaudissart,  you  know,  and  a  few  days  ago  he  died  and  left 
me  nothing,  not  so  much  as  a  pot  of  pomatum.  That  made 
me  say  just  now  that  this  age  of  ours  is  something  sick- 
ening." 

"What  did  he  die  of?" 

"  Of  his  wife.  If  he  had  stayed  with  me,  he  would  be 
living  now.  Good-by,  dear  old  boy.  I  am  talking  of 
going  off,  because  I  can  see  that  you  will  be  walking  about 
the  boulevards  in  a  week  or  two,  hunting  up  pretty  little 
curiosities  again.  You  are  not  ill;  I  never  saw  your  eyes 
look  so  bright."  And  she  went,  fully  convinced  that  her 
protege  Garangeot  would  conduct  the  orchestra  for  good. 

Every  door  stood  ajar  as  she  went  downstairs.  Every 
lodger,  on  tiptoe,  watched  the  lady  of  the  ballet  pass  on 
her  way  out.     It  was  quite  an  event  in  the  house. 

Fraisier,  like  the  bulldog  that  sets  his  teeth  and  never 
lets  go,  was  on  the  spot.  He  stood  beside  La  Cibot  when 
Mile.  Brisetout  passed  under  the  gateway  and  asked  for 
the  door  to  be  opened.  Knowing  that  a  will  had  been  made, 
he  had  come  to  see  how  the  land  lay,  for  Maitre  Trognon, 
notary,  had  refused  to  say  a  syllable — Fraisier's  questions 
were  as  fruitless  as  Mme.  Cibot's.  Naturally  the  ballet- 
girPs  visit  in  extremis  was  not  lost  upon  Fraisier ;  he  vowed 
to  himself  that  he  would  turn  it  to  good  account. 

"  My  dear  Mme.  Cibot,"  he  began,  "  now  is  the  critical 
moment  for  you." 

"  Ah,  yes  .  .  .  my  poor  Cibot !  "  said  she.  "  When  I 
think  that  he  will  not  live  to  enjoy  anything  I  may  get " 

"  It  is  a  question  of  finding  out  whether  M.  Pons  has  left 
you  anything  at  all ;  whether  your  name  is  mentioned  or  left 
out,  in  fact,"  he  interrupted.     "  I  represent  the  next-of-kin. 


228  COUSIN  PONS 

and  to  them  you  must  look  in  any  case.  It  is  a  holograph 
will,  and  consequently  very  easy  to  upset. — Do  you  know 
where  our  man  has  put  it-f*  " 

"  In  a  secret  drawer  in  his  bureau,  and  he  has  the  key 
of  it.  He  tied  it  to  a  corner  of  his  handkerchief,  and  put 
it  under  his  pillow.     I  saw  it  all." 

"Is  the  will  sealed.?" 

"  Yes,  alas !  " 

"  It  is  a  criminal  offense  if  you  carry  off  a  will  and 
suppress  it,  but  it  is  only  a  misdemeanor  to  look  at  it; 
and  anyhow,  what  does  it  amount  to?  A  peccadillo,  and 
nobody  will  see  you.      Is  your  man  a  heavy  sleeper?" 

"  Yes.  But  when  you  tried  to  see  all  the  things  and  value 
them,  he  ought  to  have  slept  like  a  top,  and  yet  he  woke  up. 
Still,  I  will  see  about  it.  I  will  take  M.  Schmucke's  place 
about  four  o'clock  this  morning;  and  if  you  care  to  come, 
you  shall  have  the  will  in  your  hands  for  ten  minutes." 

"  Good.  I  will  come  up  about  four  o'clock,  and  I  will 
knock  very  softly " 

"  Mile.  Remonencq  will  take  my  place  with  Cibot.  She 
will  know,  and  open  the  door ;  but  tap  on  the  window,  so  as 
to  rouse  nobody  in  the  house." 

"  Right,"  said  Fraisier.  "  You  will  have  a  light,  will 
you  not?     A  candle  will  do." 

At  midnight  poor  Schmucke  sat  in  his  easy-chair,  watch- 
ing with  a  breaking  heart  that  shrinking  of  the  features  that 
comes  with  death ;  Pons  looked  so  worn  out  with  the  day's 
exertions,  that  death  seemed  very  near. 

Presently  Pons  spoke.  "  I  have  just  enough  strength,  I 
think,  to  last  till  to-morrow  night,"  he  said  philosophically. 
"  To-morrovr  night  the  death  agony  will  begin ;  poor 
Schmucke !  As  soon  as  the  notary  and  your  two  friends 
are  gone,  go  for  our  good  Abbe  Duplanty,  the  curate  of 
Saint-Fran9ois.  Good  man,  he  does  not  know  that  I  am  ill, 
and  I  wish  to  take  the  Holy  Sacrament  to-morrow  at  noon." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  God  so  willed  it  that  life  has  not  been  as  I  dreamed," 
Pons  resumed.     "  I  should  so  have  loved  wife  and  children 


COUSIN  PONS  239 

and  home.  .  .  .  To  be  loved  by  a  very  few  in  some 
corner — ^that  was  my  whole  ambition!  Life  is  hard  for 
everyone;  I  have  seen  people  who  had  all  that  I  wanted  so 
much  and  could  not  have,  and  yet  they  were  not  happy. 
.  .  .  Then  at  the  end  of  my  life  God  put  untold  comfort 
in  my  way,  when  He  gave  me  such  a  friend.  .  .  .  And 
one  thing  I  have  not  to  reproach  myself  with — that  I  have 
not  known  your  worth  nor  appreciated  you,  my  good 
Schmucke.  ...  I  have  loved  you  with  my  whole  heart, 
with  all  the  strength  of  love  that  is  in  me.  .  .  .  Do  not 
cry,  Schmucke ;  I  shall  say  no  more  if  you  cry,  and  it  is  so 
sweet  to  me  to  talk  of  ourselves  to  you.  ...  If  I  had 
listened  to  you,  I  should  not  be  dying.  I  should  have  left 
the  world  and  broken  off  my  habits,  and  then  I  should  not 
have  been  wounded  to  death.  And  now,  I  want  to  think  of 
no  one  but  you  at  the  last " 

"  You  are  misdaken " 

"  Do  not  contradict  me — listen,  dear  friend.  .  .  .  You 
are  as  guileless  and  simple  as  a  six-year-old  child  that  has 
never  left  its  mother ;  one  honors  you  for  it — it  seems  to  me 
that  God  Himself  must  watch  over  such  as  you.  But  men 
are  so  wicked,  that  I  ought  to  warn  you  beforehand  . 
and  then  you  will  lose  your  generous  trust,  your  saintlike 
belief  in  others,  the  bloom  of  a  purity  of  soul  that  only 
belongs  to  genius  or  to  hearts  like  yours.  ...  In  a 
little  while  you  will  see  Mme.  Cibot,  who  left  the  door  ajar 
and  watched  us  closely  while  M.  Trognon  was  here — in  a 
little  while  you  will  see  her  come  for  the  will,  as  she  believes 
it  to  be.  ...  I  expect  the  worthless  creature  will  do 
her  business  this  morning  when  she  thinks  you  are  asleep. 
Now,  mind  what  I  say,  and  carry  out  my  instructions  to  the 
letter.     .      .      .     Are  you  listening.''  "  asked  the  dying  man. 

But  Schmucke  was  overcome  with  grief,  his  heart  was 
throbbing  painfully,  his  head  fell  back  on  the  chair,  he  seemed 
to  have  lost  consciousness. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  can  hear,  but  it  is  as  if  you  vere 
doo  huntert  baces  afay  from  me.  .  .  .  It  seem  to  me 
dat  I  am  going  town  into  der  grafe  mit  you,"  said  Schmucke, 
crushed  with  pain. 


240  COUSIX  PONS 

He  went  over  to  the  bed,  took  one  of  Pons's  hands  in  both 
his  own,  and  within  himself  put  up  a  fervent  prayer. 

"  What  is  that  that  you  are  mumbling  in  Grerman  ?  " 

"  I  asked  of  Gott  dat  He  vould  take  us  poth  togedders  to 
Himself !  "  Schmucke  answered  simply  when  he  had  finished 
his  prayer. 

Pons  bent  over — it  was  a  great  effort,  for  he  was  suffering 
intolerable  pain ;  but  he  managed  to  reach  Schmucke,  and 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  pouring  out  his  soul,  as  it  were, 
in  benediction  upon  a  nature  that  recalled  the  lamb  that  lies 
at  the  foot  of  the  ThroEie  of  God. 

"  See  here,  listen,  my  good  Schmucke,  you  must  do  as 
dying  people  tell  you " 

"  I  am  hsdening." 

"  The  little  door  in  the  recess  in  your  bedroom  opens  into 
that  closet." 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  blocked  up  mit  bictures." 

"  Clear  them  away  at  once,  without  making  too  much 
noise." 

"  Yes." 

"  Clear  a  passage  on  both  sides,  so  that  you  can  pass 
from  your  room  into  mine. — ^Xow,  leave  the  door  ajar. — 
When  La  Cibot  comes  to  take  your  place  (and  she  is 
capable  of  coming  an  hour  earlier  than  usual),  you  can 
go  away  to  bed  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  look  very 
tired.  Try  to  look  sleepy.  As  soon  as  she  settles  down 
into  the  armchair,  go  into  the  closet,  draw  aside  the  muslin 
curtains  over  the  glass  door,  and  watch  her.  .  .  .  Do 
you  understand?  " 

"  I  oondershtand ;  you  belief  dat  die  pad  voman  is  going 
to  pum  der  vill." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  she  will  do ;  but  I  am  sure  of  this — 
that  you  will  not  take  her  for  an  angel  afterwards. — And 
now  play  for  me;  improvise  and  make  me  happy.  It  will 
divert  your  thoughts ;  your  gloomy  ideas  will  vanish,  and 
for  me  the  dark  hours  will  be  filled  with  your  dreams.    .    .    ." 

Schmucke  sat  down  to  the  piano.  Here  he  was  in  his 
element;  and  in  a  few  moments,  musical  inspiration,  quick- 
ened by  the  pain  with  which  he  was  quivering  and  the  con- 


COUSIN  PONS  241] 

sequent  irritation  that  followed,  came  upon  the  kindly  Ger- 
man, and,  after  his  wont,  he  was  caught  up  and  borne  above 
the  world.  On  one  sublime  theme  after  another  he  executed 
variations,  putting  into  them  sometimes  Chopin's  sorrow, 
Chopin's  Rafael-like  perfection ;  sometimes  the  stormy  Dante's 
grandeur  of  Liszt — the  two  musicians  who  most  nearly 
approach  Paganini's  temperament.  When  execution  reaches 
this  supreme  degree,  the  executant  stands  beside  the  poet, 
as  it  were ;  he  is  to  the  composer  as  the  actor  is  to  the  writer 
of  plays,  a  divinely  inspired  interpreter  of  things  di^'ine, 
But  that  night,  when  Schmucke  gave  Pons  an  earnest  of 
diviner  symphonies,  of  that  heavenly  music  for  which  Saint 
CeciHa  let  fall  her  instruments,  he  was  at  once  Beethoven 
and  Paganini,  creator  and  interpreter.  It  was  an  out- 
pouring of  music  inexhaustible  as  the  nightingr  's  song 
— varied  and  full  of  delicate  undergrowth  as  the  forest 
flooded  with  her  trills ;  sublime  as  the  sky  overhead. 
Schmucke  plaj-ed  as  he  had  never  played  before,  and  the 
soul  of  the  old  musician  listening  to  liim  rose  to  ecstasy  such 
as  Rafael  once  painted  in  a  picture  which  you  may  see  at 
Bologna. 

A  terrific  ringing  of  the  door-bell  put  an  end  to  these 
visions.  The  first-floor  lodgers  sent  up  the  servant  with  a 
message.  Would  Schmucke  please  to  stop  the  racket  over- 
head. Mme.,  M.,  and  Mile.  Chapoulot  had  been  wakened,  and 
could  not  sleep  for  the  noise ;  they  called  liis  attention  to  the 
fact  that  the  day  was  quite  long  enough  for  rehearsals  of 
theatrical  music,  and  added  that  people  ought  not  to 
"  strum  "  all  night  in  a  house  in  the  Marais. — It  was  then 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  At  half-past  three.  La  Cibot 
appeared,  just  as  Pons  had  predicted.  He  might  have 
actually  heard  the  conference  between  Fraisier  and  the 
portress:  "Did  I  not  guess  exactly  how  it  would  be?"  his 
eyes  seemed  to  say  as  he  glanced  at  Schmucke,  and,  turning 
a  little,  he  seemed  to  be  fast  asleep. 

Schmucke's  guileless  simplicity  was  an  article  of  belief 
with  La  Cibot  (and  be  it  noted  that  this  faith  in  simplicity 
is  the  great  source  and  secret  of  the  success  of  all  infantine 
strategy) ;  La  Cibot,  therefore,  could  not  suspect  Schmucke 


242  COUSIN  PONS 

of  deceit  when  he  came  to  say  to  her,  with  a  face  half  of 
distress,  half  of  glad  relief — 

"  I  haf  had  a  derrible  night !  a  derrible  dime  of  it !  I 
vas  opliged  to  blay  to  keep  him  kviet,  and  the  virst-floor 
lodgers  vas  komn  up  to  tell  me  to  be  kviet!  ...  It  was 
frightful,  for  der  life  of  mein  friend  vas  at  shtake.  I  am 
so  tired  mit  der  blaying  all  night,  dat  dis  morning  I  am  all 
knocked  up." 

"  My  poor  Cibot  is  very  bad,  too ;  one  more  day  like 
yesterday,  and  he  will  have  no  strength  left.  .  .  .  One 
can't  help  it ;  it  is  God's  will." 

"  You  haf  a  heart  so  honest,  a  soul  so  peautiful,  dot  gif 
der  Zipod  die,  ve  shall  lif  togedder,"  said  the  cunning 
Schmucke. 

The  craft  of  simple,  straightforward  folk  is  formidable 
indeed ;  they  are  exactly  like  children,  setting  their  un- 
suspected snares  with  the  perfect  craft  of  the  savage. 

"  Oh,  well,  go  and  sleep,  sonny ! "  returned  La  Cibot. 
"  Your  eyes  look  tired,  they  are  as  big  as  my  fist.  But 
there !  if  anything  could  comfort  me  for  losing  Cibot,  it  would 
be  the  thought  of  ending  my  days  with  a  good  man  like  you. 
Be  easy.  I  will  give  Mme.  Chapoulot  a  dressing  down. 
.  To  think  of  a  retired  haberdasher's  wife  giving 
herself  such  airs !  " 

Schmucke  went  to  his  room  and  took  up  his  post  in  the 
closet. 

La  Cibot  had  left  the  door  ajar  on  the  landing;  Fraisier 
came  in  and  closed  it  noiselessly  as  soon  as  he  heard  Schmucke 
shut  his  bedroom  door.  He  had  brought  with  him  a  lighted 
taper  and  a  bit  of  very  fine  wire  to  open  the  seal  of  the 
will.  La  Cibot,  meanwhile,  looking  under  the  pillow,  found 
the  handkerchief  with  the  key  of  the  bureau  knotted  to  one 
corner;  and  this  so  much  the  more  easily  because  Pons  pur- 
posely left  the  end  hanging  out  over  the  bolster,  and  lay 
with  his  face  to  the  wall. 

La  Cibot  went  straight  to  the  bureau,  opened  it  cautiously 
so  as  to  make  as  little  noise  as  possible,  found  the  spring 
of  the  secret  drawer,  and  hurried  into  the  salon  with  the 
will  in  her  hand.     Her  flight  roused  Pons's  curiosity  to  the 


COUSIN  PONS  243 

highest  pitch;  and  as  for  Schmucke,  he  trembled  as  if  he 
were  the  guilty  person. 

"  Go  back,"  said  Fraisier,  when  she  handed  over  the  will. 
"  He  may  wake,  and  he  must  find  you  there." 

Fraisier  opened  the  seal  with  a  dexterity  which  proved 
that  his  was  no  'prentice  hand,  and  read  the  following 
curious  document,  headed :  "  My  Will,"  with  ever-deepening 
astonishment : — 

"  On  this  fifteenth  day  of  April,  eighteen  hundred  and 
forty-five,  I,  being  in  my  sound  mind  (as  this  my  Will, 
drawn  up  in  concert  with  M.  Trognon,  will  testify),  and 
feeling  that  I  must  shortly  die  of  the  malady  from  which  I 
have  suffered  since  the  beginning  of  February  last,  am 
anxious  to  dispose  of  my  property,  and  have  herein  recorded 
my  last  wishes : — 

"  I  have  always  been  impressed  by  the  untoward  circum- 
stances that  injure  great  pictures,  and  not  unfrequently 
bring  about  total  destruction.  I  have  felt  sorry  for  the 
beautiful  paintings  condemned  to  travel  from  land  to  land, 
never  finding  some  fixed  abode  whither  admirers  of  great 
masterpieces  may  travel  to  see  them.  And  I  have  always 
thought  that  the  truly  deathless  work  of  a  great  master 
ought  to  be  national  property ;  put  where  everyone  of  every 
nation  may  see  it,  even  as  the  Light,  God's  masterpiece, 
shines  for  all  His  children. 

"  And  as  I  have  spent  my  life  in  collecting  together  and 
choosing  a  few  pictures,  some  of  the  greatest  masters'  most 
glorious  work,  and  as  these  pictures  are  as  the  master  left 
them — genuine  examples,  neither  repainted  nor  retouched, — 
it  has  been  a  painful  thought  to  me  that  the  paintings  which 
have  been  the  joy  of  my  life,  may  be  sold  by  public  auction, 
and  go,  some  to  England,  some  to  Russia,  till  they  are  all 
scattered  abroad  again  as  if  they  had  never  been  gathered 
together.  From  this  wretched  fate  I  have  determined  to 
save  both  them  and  the  frames  in  which  they  are  set,  all 
of  them  the  work  of  skilled  craftsmen. 

"  On  these  grounds,  therefore,  I  give  and  bequeath  the 


244  COUSIN  PONS 

pictures  which  compose  my  collection  to  the  King,  for  the 
gallery  in  the  Louvre,  subject  to  the  charge  (if  the  legacy 
is  accepted)  of  a  life-annuity  of  two  thousand  four  hundred 
francs  to  my  friend  Wilhelm  Schmucke. 

"  If  the  King,  as  usufructuary  of  the  Louvre  collection, 
should  refuse  the  legacy  with  the  charge  upon  it,  the  said 
pictures  shall  form  a  part  of  the  estate  which  I  leave  to 
my  friend  Schmucke,  on  condition  that  he  shall  deliver 
the  Monkey^s  Head,  by  Goya,  to  my  cousin,  President 
Camusot ;  a  Floxcer-piece,  the  tulips,  by  Abraham  Mignon, 
to  M.  Trognon,  notary  (whom  I  appoint  as  my  executor)  ; 
and  allow  Mme.  Cibot,  who  has  acted  as  my  housekeeper 
for  ten  years,  the  sum  of  two  hundred  francs  per  annum. 

"  Finally,  my  friend  Schmucke  is  to  give  the  Descent 
from  the  Cross,  Rubens's  sketch  for  his  great  picture  at 
Antwerp,  to  adorn  a  chapel  in  the  parish  church,  in  grateful 
acknowledgment  of  M.  Duplanty's  kindness  to  me;  for  to 
him  I  owe  it  that  I  can  die  as  a  Christian  and  a  Catholic," — 
So  ran  the  will. 

"  This  is  ruin !  "  mused  Fraisier,  "  the  ruin  of  all  my  hopes. 
Ha !  I  begin  to  believe  all  that  the  Presidente  told  me  about 
this  old  artist  and  his  cunning.'* 

"  Well.''  "  La  Cibot  came  back  to  say.  * 

*'  Your  gentleman  is  a  monster.  He  is  leaving  everything 
to  the  Crown.  Now,  you  cannot  plead  against  the  Crown. 
The  will  cannot  be  disputed.  .  .  .  We  are 
robbed,  ruined,  spoiled,  and  murdered ! " 

"What  has  he  left  to  me.?" 

"  Two  hundred  francs  a  year." 

"  A  pretty  come-down !  .  .  .  Why,  he  is  a  finished 
scoundrel ! " 

"  Go  and  see,"  said  Fraisier,  "  and  I  will  put  your  scoun- 
drel's will  back  again  in  the  envelope." 

While  Mme.  Cibot's  back  was  turned,  Fraisier  nimbly 
slipped  a  sheet  of  blank  paper  into  the  envelope;  the  will 
he  put  in  his  pocket.  He  next  proceeded  to  seal  the  en- 
velope again  so  cleverly  that  he  showed  the  seal  to  Mme. 
Cibot  when  she   returned,   and   asked  her  if   she   could   see 


COUSIN  PONS  145 

the  slightest  trace  of  the  operation.  La  Cibot  took  lip  the 
envelope,  felt  it  over,  assured  herself  that  it  was  not  empty, 
and  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  She  had  entertained  hopes  that 
Fraisier  himself  would  have  burned  the  unlucky  document 
while  she  was  out  of  the  room. 

*'  Well,  my  dear  M.  Fraisier,  what  is  to  be  done?  " 

"  Oh !  that  is  your  affair !  I  am  not  one  of  the  next-of- 
kin,  myself ;  but  if  I  had  the  slightest  claim  to  any  of  that  " 
(indicating  the  collection),  "  I  know  very  well  what  I  should 
do." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  want  to  know,"  La  Cibot  answered, 
with  sufficient  simplicity. 

"  There  is  a  fire  in  the  grate "  he  said.     Then  he  rose 

to  go. 

"  After  all,  no  one  will  know  about  it  but  you  and  me " 

began  La  Cibot. 

"  It  can  never  be  proved  that  a  will  existed,"  asserted  the 
man  of  law. 

"And  you.?" 

"I.'*  .  .  .  If  M.  Pons  dies  intestate,  you  shall  have  a 
hundred  thousand  francs." 

"  Oh  yes,  no  doubt,"  returned  she.  "  People  promise  you 
heaps   of  money,   and   when   they   come   by   their   own,   and 

there  ^s  talk  of  paying,  they  swindle  you  like "     "  Like 

Elie  Magus,"  she  was  going  to  say,  but  she  stopped  herself 
just  in  time. 

"  I  am  going,"  said  Fraisier ;  "  it  is  not  to  your  interest 
that  I  should  be  found  here ;  but  I  shall  see  you  again  down- 
stairs." 

La  Cibot  shut  the  door  and  returned  with  the  sealed 
packet  in  her  hand.  She  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  to 
burn  it;  but  as  she  went  towards  the  bedroom  fireplace,  she 
felt  the  grasp  of  a  hand  on  each  arm,  and  saw — Schmucke 
on  one  hand,  and  Pons  himself  on  the  other,  leaning  against 
the  partition  wall  on  either  side  of  the  door. 

La  Cibot  cried  out,  and  fell  face  downwards  in  a  fit ; 
real  or  feigned,  no  one  ever  knew  the  truth.  This  sight 
produced  such  an  impression  on  Pons  that  a  deadly  faintness 
came  upon  him,  and  Schmucke  left  the  woman  on  the  floor 


046  COUSIN  PONS 

to  help  Pons  back  to  bed.  The  friends  trembled  In  every 
limb ;  they  had  set  themselves  a  hard  task,  it  was  done,  but 
it  had  been  too  much  for  their  strength.  When  Pons  lay 
in  bed  again,  and  Schmucke  had  regained  strength  to  some 
extent,  he  heard  a  sound  of  sobbing.  La  Cibot,  on  her 
knees,  bursting  into  tears,  held  out  supplicating  hands  to 
them  in  very  expressive  pantomime. 

"  It  was  pure  curiosity !  "  she  sobbed,  when  she  saw  that 
Pons  and  Schmucke  were  paying  any  attention  to  her  pro- 
ceedings. "  Pure  curiosity ;  a  woman's  fault,  you  know. 
But  I  did  not  know  how  else  to  get  a  sight  of  your  will, 
and  I  brought  it  back  again " 

"  Go ! "  said  Schmucke,  standing  erect,  his  tall  figure 
gaining  in  height  by  the  full  height  of  his  indignation. 
"  You  are  a  monster !  You  dried  to  kill  mein  goot  Bons ! 
He  is  right.  You  are  worse  than  a  monster,  you  are  a  lost 
soul!" 

La  Cibot  saw  the  look  of  abhorrence  in  the  frank  German's 
face;  she  rose,  proud  as  Tartuffe,  gave  Schmucke  a  glance 
which  made  him  quake,  and  went  out,  carrying  off  under 
her  dress  an  exquisite  little  picture  of  Metzu's  pointed  out 
by  Elie  Magus.  "  A  diamond,"  he  had  called  it.  Fraisier 
downstairs  in  the  porter's  lodge  was  waiting  to  hear  that 
La  Cibot  had  burned  the  envelope  and  the  sheet  of  blank 
paper  inside  it.  Great  was  his  astonisliment  when  he  beheld 
his  fair  client's  agitation  and  dismay. 

"What  has  happened?" 

"  TJiis  has  happened,  my  dear  M.  Fraisier.  Under  pre- 
tense of  giving  me  good  advice  and  telling  me  what  to  do, 
you  have  lost  me  my  annuity  and  the  gentlemen's  confi- 
dence.   .    .    .'* 

One  of  the  word  tornadoes  in  which  she  excelled  was  in 
full    progress,   but   Fraisier    cut   her   short. 

"  This  is  idle  talk.  The  facts,  the  facts !  and  be  quick 
about  it." 

"  Well ;  it  came  about  in  this  way," — and  she  told  him 
of  the  scene  which  she  had  just  come  through. 

"  You  have  lost  nothing  through  me,"  was  Fraisier's  com- 
ment.    "  The  gentlemen  had  their  doubts,  or  they  would  not 


COUSIN  PONS  24T 

have  set  this  trap  for  you.  They  were  lying  in  wait  and 
spying  upon  you.  .  .  .  You  have  not  told  me  every- 
thing," he  added,  with  a  tiger's  glance  at  the  woman  before 
him. 

"  /  hide  anything  from  you !  "  cried  she — "  after  all  that 
we  have  done  together !  "  she  added  with  a  shudder. 

"  My  dear  Madame,  /  have  done  nothing  blameworthy," 
returned  Fraisier.  Evidently  he  meant  to  deny  his  nocturnal 
visit  to  Pons's  rooms. 

Every  hair  on  La  Cibot's  head  seemed  to  scorch  her, 
while  a  sense  of  icy  cold  swept  over  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"  What?  "...      she   faltered   in   bewilderment. 

"  Here  is  a  criminal  charge  on  the  face  of  it.  .  .  . 
You  may  be  accused  of  suppressing  the  will,"  Fraisier 
made  answer  dryly. 

La  Cibot  started. 

"Don't  be  alarmed;  I  am  your  legal  adviser.  I  only 
wished  to  show  you  how  easy  it  is,  in  one  way  or  another, 
to  do  as  I  once  explained  to  you.  Let  us  see,  now;  what 
have  you  done  that  this  simple  German  should  be  hiding  in 
the  room?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  unless  it  was  that  scene  the  other  day 
when  I  stood  M.  Pons  out  that  his  eyes  dazzled.  And  ever 
since,  the  two  gentlemen  have  been  as  different  as  can  be. 
So  you  have  brought  all  my  troubles  upon  me ;  I  might  have 
lost  my  influence  with  M.  Pons,  but  I  was  sure  of  the  German ; 
just  now  he  was  talking  of  marrying  me  or  of  taking  me 
with  him — it  is  all  one." 

The  excuse  was  so  plausible  that  Fraisier  was  fain  to 
be  satisfied  with  it.  "  You  need  fear  nothing,"  he  resumed. 
"  I  gave  you  my  word  that  you  shall  have  your  money,  and 
I  shall  keep  my  word.  The  whole  matter,  so  far,  was  up 
in  the  air,  but  now  it  is  as  good  as  bank-notes.  .  .  .  You 
shall  have  at  least  twelve  hundred  francs  per  annum. 
But,  my  good  lady,  you  must  act  intelligently  under  my 
orders." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  M.  Fraisier,"  said  La  Cibot  with  cringing 
servility.     She  was  completely  subdued. 

Very  good.     Good-by,"  and  Fraisier  went,  taking  the 


«( 


g48  COUSIN  PONS 

dangerous  document  with  him.  He  reached  home  in  great 
spirits.     The  will  was  a  terrible  weapon. 

"  Now,"  thought  he,  "  I  have  a  hold  on  Mme.  la  Presidente 
de  Marville ;  she  must  keep  her  word  with  me.  If  she  did 
not,  she  would  lose  the  property," 

At  daybreak,  when  Remonencq  had  taken  down  his  shutters 
and  left  his  sister  in  charge  of  the  shop,  he  came,  after 
his  wont  of  late,  to  inquire  for  his  good  friend  Cibot.  The 
portress  was  contemplating  the  Metzu,  privately  wondering 
how  a  little  bit  of  painted  wood  could  be  worth  such  a  lot 
of  money. 

"  Aha !  "  said  he,  looking  over  her  shoulder,  "  that  is  the 
one  picture  which  M.  Elie  Magus  regretted;  with  that  little 
bit  of  a  thing,  he  says,  his  happiness  would  be  complete." 

"  What  would  he  give  for  it?  "  asked  La  Cibot. 

"  Why,  if  you  will  promise  to  marry  me  within  a  year  of 
widowhood,  I  will  undertake  to  get  twenty  thousand  francs 
for  it  from  Elie  Magus ;  and  unless  you  marry  me  you  wiU 
never  get  a  thousand  francs  for  the  picture." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  you  would  be  obliged  to  give  a  receipt  for  the 
money,  and  then  you  might  have  a  lawsuit  with  the  heirs-at- 
law.  If  you  were  my  wife,  I  myself  should  sell  the  thing 
to  M.  Magus,  and  in  the  way  of  business  it  is  enough  to 
make  an  entry  in  the  day-book,  and  I  should  note  that  M. 
Schmucke  sold  it  to  me.  There,  leave  the  panel  with  me. 
If  your  husband  were  to  die  you  might  have  a  lot 
of  bother  over  it,  but  no  one  would  think  it  odd  that  I  should 
have  a  picture  in  the  shop.  .  .  .  You  know  me  quite 
well.     Besides,  I  will  give  you  a  receipt  if  you  like." 

The  covetous  portress  felt  that  she  had  been  caught ; 
she  agreed  to  a  proposal  which  was  to  bind  her  for  the  rest 
of  her  life  to  the  marine-store-dealer. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  she,  as  she  locked  the  picture  away 
in  a  chest ;  "  bring  me  the  bit  of  writing." 

Remonencq  beckoned  her  to  the  door. 

"  I  can  see,  neighbor,  that  we  shall  not  save  our  poor 
dear  Cibot,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice.  "  Dr.  Poulain  gave 
him  up  yesterday  evening,  and  said  that  he  CQuld  not  last 


COUSIN  PONS  249 

out  the  day.  .  .  .  It  is  a  great  misfortune.  But,  after 
all,  this  was  not  the  place  for  you.  .  .  .  You  ought  to 
be  in  a  fine  curiosity  shop  on  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines. 
Do  you  know  that  I  have  made  nearly  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  in  ten  years?  and  if  you  will  have  as  much  some  day, 
I  will  undertake  to  make  a  handsome  fortune  for  you — as 
my  wife.  You  would  be  the  mistress — my  sister  should  wait 
on  you  and  do  the  work  of  the  house,  and " 

A  heartrending  moan  from  the  little  tailor  cut  the  tempter 
short ;  the  death  agony  had  begun. 

"  Go  away,"  said  La  Cibot.  "  You  are  a  monster  to  talk 
of  such  things  and  my  poor  man  dying  like  this " 

"  Ah !  it  is  because  I  love  you,"  said  Remonencq ;  "  I 
could  let  everything  else  go  to  have  you " 

"  If  you  loved  me,  you  would  say  nothing  to  me  just  now," 
returned  she.  And  Remonencq  departed  to  liis  shop,  sure 
of  marrying  La  Cibot. 

Towards  ten  o'clock  there  was  a  sort  of  commotion  in 
the  street ;  M.  Cibot  was  taking  the  Sacrament.  All  the 
friends  of  the  pair,  all  the  porters  and  porters'  wives  in 
the  Rue  de  Normandie  and  neighboring  streets,  had  crowded 
into  the  lodge,  under  the  archway,  and  stood  on  the  pavement 
outside.  Nobody  so  much  as  noticed  the  arrival  of  M. 
Leopold  Mannequin  and  a  brother  lawyer.  Schwab  and 
Brunner  reached  Pons's  rooms  unseen  by  Mme.  Cibot.  The 
notary,  inquiring  for  Pons,  was  shown  upstairs  by  the  por- 
tress of  a  neighboring  house.  Brunner  remembered  his  pre- 
vious visit  to  the  museum,  and  went  straight  in  with  his 
friend  Schwab. 

Pons  formally  revoked  his  previous  will  and  constituted 
Schmucke  his  universal  legatee.  This  accomplished,  he 
thanked  Schwab  and  Brunner,  and  earnestly  begged  M. 
Leopold  Mannequin  to  protect  Schmucke's  interests.  The 
demands  made  upon  him  by  last  night's  scene  with  La  Cibot, 
and  this  final  settlement  of  his  worldly  affairs,  left  him  so 
faint  and  exhausted  that  Schmucke  begged  Schwab  to  go 
for  the  Abbe  Duplanty ;  it  was  Pons's  great  desire  to  take 
the  Sacrament,  and  Schmucke  could  not  bring  himself  to 
leave  his  friend. 


^60  COUSIN  PONS 

La  Cibot,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  her  husband's  bed,  gave 
not  so  much  as  a  thought  to  Schmucke's  breakfast — for 
that  matter  had  been  forbidden  to  return ;  but  the  morning's 
events,  the  sight  of  Pons's  heroic  resignation  in  the  death 
agony,  so  oppressed  Schmucke's  heart  that  he  was  not  con- 
scious of  hunger.  Towards  two  o'clock,  however,  as  nothing 
had  been  seen  of  the  old  German,  La  Cibot  sent  Remonencq's 
sister  to  see  whether  Schmucke  wanted  anything;  prompted 
not  so  much  by  interest  as  by  curiosity.  The  Abbe  Duplanty 
had  just  heard  the  old  musician's  dying  confession,  and  the 
administration  of  the  sacrament  of  extreme  unction  was  dis- 
turbed by  repeated  ringing  of  the  door-bell.  Pons,  in  his 
terror  of  robbery,  had  made  Schmucke  promise  solemnly  to 
Admit  no  one  into  the  house ;  so  Schmucke  did  not  stir. 
Again  and  again  Mile.  Remonencq  pulled  the  cord,  and 
finally  went  downstairs  in  alarm  to  tell  La  Cibot  that 
Schmucke  would  not  open  the  door;  Fraisier  made  a  note  of 
this.  Schmucke  had  never  seen  anyone  die  in  his  life ;  before 
long  he  would  be  perplexed  by  the  many  difficulties  which 
beset  those  who  are  left  with  a  dead  body  in  Paris,  this  more 
especially  if  they  are  lonely  and  helpless  and  have  no  one 
to  act  for  them.  Fraisier  knew,  moreover,  that  in  real 
affiiction  people  lose  their  heads,  and  therefore  immediately 
after  breakfast  he  took  up  his  position  in  the  porter's  lodge, 
and  sitting  there  in  perpetual  committee  with  Dr.  Poulain, 
conceived  the  idea  of  directing  all  Schmucke's  actions  himself. 

To  obtain  the  important  result,  the  doctor  and  the  lawyer 
took  their  measures  on  this  wise: — 

The  beadle  of  Saint-Fran9ois,  Cantinet  by  name,  at  one 
time  a  retail  dealer  in  glassware,  lived  in  the  Rue  d'Orleans, 
next  door  to  Dr.  Poulain  and  under  the  same  roof.  Mme. 
Cantinet,  who  saw  to  the  letting  of  the  chairs  at  Saint- 
Fran9ois,  once  had  fallen  ill  and  Dr.  Poulain  had  attended 
her  gratuitously ;  she  was,  as  might  be  expected,  grateful, 
and  often  confided  her  troubles  to  him.  "  The  nutcrackers," 
punctual  in  their  attendance  at  Saint-Francois  on  Sundays 
and  saints'-days,  were  on  friendly  terms  with  the  beadle  and 
the  lowest  ecclesiastical  rank  and  file,  commonly  called  in 
Paris  le  has  clerge,  to  whom  the  devout  usually  give  little 


COUSIN  PONS  251 

presents  from  time  to  time.  Mme.  Cantinet  therefore  knew 
Schmucke  almost  as  well  as  Schmucke  knew  her.  And  Mme. 
Cantinet  was  afflicted  with  two  sore  troubles  which  enabled 
the  lawyer  to  use  her  as  a  blind  and  involuntary  agent. 
Cantinet,  junior,  a  stage-struck  youth,  had  deserted  the 
paths  of  the  Church  and  turned  his  back  on  the  prospect 
of  one  day  becoming  a  beadle,  to  make  his  debut  among  the 
supernumeraries  of  the  Cirque-Olympique ;  he  was  leading 
a  wild  life,  breaking  his  mother's  heart  and  draining  her 
purse  by  frequent  forced  loans.  Cantinet,  senior,  much  ad- 
dicted to  spirituous  liquors  and  idleness,  had,  in  fact,  been 
driven  to  retire  from  business  by  those  two  failings.  So  far 
from  reforming,  the  incorrigible  offender  had  found  scope  in 
his  new  occupation  for  the  indulgence  of  both  cravings ; 
he  did  nothing,  and  he  drank  with  drivers  of  wedding- 
coaches,  with  the  undertaker's  men  at  funerals,  with  poor 
folk  relieved  by  the  vicar,  till  his  morning's  occupation  was 
set  forth  in  rubric  on  his  countenance  by  noon. 

Mme.  Cantinet  saw  no  prospect  but  want  in  her  old  age, 
and  yet  she  had  brought  her  husband  twelve  thousand  francs, 
she  said.  The  tale  of  her  woes  related  for  the  hundredth 
time  suggested  an  idea  to  Dr.  Poulain.  Once  introduce  her 
into  the  old  bachelors'  quarters,  and  it  would  be  easy  by 
her  means  to  establish  Mme.  Sauvage  there  as  working  house- 
keeper. It  was  quite  impossible  to  present  Mme.  Sauvage 
herself,  for  the  "  nutcrackers "  had  grown  suspicious  of 
everyone,  Schmucke's  refusal  to  admit  Mile.  Remonencq 
had  sufficiently  opened  Fraisier's  eyes.  Still,  it  seemed  evi- 
dent that  Pons  and  Schmucke,  being  pious  souls,  would  take 
anyone  recommended  by  the  Abbe,  with  blind  confidence. 
Mme.  Cantinet  should  bring  Mme,  Sauvage  with  her,  and 
to  put  in  Fraisier's  servant  was  almost  tantamount  to  in- 
stalling Fraisier  himself. 

The  Abbe  Duplanty,  coming  downstairs,  found  the  gate- 
way blocked  by  the  Cibots'  friends,  all  of  them  bent  upon 
showing  their  interest  in  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  re- 
spectable porters  in  the  Marais. 

Dr.  Poulain  raised  his  hat,  and  took  the  Abbe  aside. 

**  I  am  just  about  to  go  to  poor  M.  Pons,"  he  said.    "  There 


«6^  COUSIN  PONS 

is  still  a  chance  of  recovery ;  but  it  is  a  question  of  inducing 
him  to  undergo  an  operation.  The  calculi  are  perceptible 
to  the  touch,  they  are  setting  up  an  inflammatory  condition 
which  will  end  fatally,  but  perhaps  it  is  not  too  late  to  remove 
them.  You  should  really  use  your  influence  to  persuade  the 
patient  to  submit  to  surgical  treatment;  I  will  answer  for 
his  life,  provided  that  no  untoward  circumstance  occurs  dur- 
ing the  operation." 

"  I  will  return  as  soon  as  I  have  taken  the  sacred  ciborium 
back  to  the  church,"  said  the  Abbe  Duplanty,  "  for  M. 
Schmucke's  condition  claims  the  support  of  religion." 

"  I  have  just  heard  that  he  is  alone,"  said  Dr.  Poulain. 
"  The  German,  good  soul,  had  a  little  altercation  this  morn- 
ing with  Mme.  Cibot,  who  has  acted  as  housekeeper  to  them 
both  for  the  past  ten  years.  They  have  quarreled  (for  the 
moment  only,  no  doubt),  but  under  the  circumstances  they 
must  have  someone  in  to  help  upstairs.  It  would  be  a 
charity  to  look  after  him. — I  say,  Cantinet,"  continued  the 
doctor,  beckoning  to  the  beadle,  "  just  go  and  ask  your  wife 
if  she  will  nurse  M.  Pons,  and  look  after  M.  Schmucke,  and 
take  Mme.  Cibot's  place  for  a  day  or  two.  .  .  .  Even 
without  the  quarrel,  Mme.  Cibot  would  still  require  a  sub- 
stitute. Mme.  Cantinet  is  honest,"  added  the  doctor,  turning 
to  M.  Duplanty. 

"  You  could  not  make  a  better  choice,"  said  the  good 
priest ;  "  she  is  intrusted  with  the  letting  of  chairs  in  the 
church." 

A  few  minutes  later.  Dr.  Poulain  stood  by  Pons's  pillow 
watching  the  progress  made  by  death,  and  Schmucke's  vain 
eff"orts  to  persuade  his  friend  to  consent  to  the  operation. 
To  all  the  poor  German's  despairing  entreaties  Pons  only 
replied  by  a  shake  of  the  head  and  occasional  impatient 
movements ;  till,  after  a  while,  he  summoned  up  all  his  fast- 
failing  strength  to  say,  with  a  heartrending  look — 

*'  Do  let  me  die  in  peace !  " 

Schmucke  almost  died  of  sorrow,  but  he  took  Pons's 
hand,  and  softly  kissed  it,  and  held  it  between  his  own, 
as  if  trying  a  second  time  to  give  his  own  vitality  to  his 
friend. 


COUSIN  PONS  253 

Just  at  this  moment  the  bell  rang,  and  Dr.  Poulain,  going 
to  the  door,  admitted  the  Abbe  Duplantj. 

"  Our  poor  patient  is  struggling  in  the  grasp  of  death," 
he  said.  "  All  will  be  over  in  a  few  hours.  You  will  send 
a  priest,  no  doubt,  to  watch  to-night.  But  it  is  time  that 
Mme.  Cantinet  came,  as  well  as  a  woman  to  do  the  work, 
for  M.  Schmucke  is  quite  unfit  to  think  of  anything:  I  am 
afraid  for  his  reason ;  and  there  are  valuables  here  which 
ought  to  be  in  the  custody  of  honest  persons." 

The  Abbe  Duplanty,  a  kindly,  upright  priest,  guileless  and 
unsuspicious,  was  struck  with  the  truth  of  Dr.  Poulain's 
remarks.  He  had,  moreover,  a  certain  belief  in  the  doctor 
of  the  quarter.  So,  on  the  threshold  of  the  death-chamber, 
he  stopped  and  beckoned  to  Schmucke,  but  Schmucke  could 
not  bring  himself  to  loosen  the  grasp  of  the  hand  that  grew 
tighter  and  tighter.  Pons  seemed  to  think  that  he  was  slip- 
ping over  the  edge  of  a  precipice  and  must  catch  at  something 
to  save  himself.  But,  as  many  know,  the  dying  are  haunted 
by  an  hallucination  that  leads  them  to  snatch  at  things  about 
them,  like  men  eager  to  save  their  most  precious  possessions 
from  a  fire.  Presently  Pons  released  Schmucke  to  clutch  at 
the  bedclothes,  dragging  them  and  huddling  them  about 
himself  with  a  hasty,  covetous  movement  significant  and  pain- 
ful to  see. 

"  What  will  you  do,  left  alone  with  your  dead  friend.?  " 
asked  M.  I'Abbe  Duplanty  when  Schmucke  came  to  the  door. 
"  You  have  not  Mme.  Cibot  now " 

"  Ein  monster  dat  haf  killed  Bons !  " 

"  But  you  must  have  somebody  with  you,"  began  Dr. 
Poulain.     "  Someone  must  sit  up  with  the  body  to-night." 

"  I  shall  sit  up ;  I  shall  say  die  prayers  to  Gott,"  the  inno- 
cent German  answered. 

"  But  you  must  eat — and  who  is  to  cook  for  you  now?  " 
asked  the  doctor. 

"Grief  haf  taken  afay  mein  abbetite,"  Schmucke  said, 
simply. 

"  And  someone  must  give  notice  to  the  registrar,"  said 
Poulain,  "  and  lay  out  the  body,  and  order  the  funeral ;  and 
the  person  who  sits  up  with  the  body  and  the  priest  will 


554  COUSIN  PONS 

want  meals.  Can  you  do  this  all  by  yourself?  A  man  can- 
not die  like  a  dog  in  the  capital  of  the  civilized  world." 

Schmucke  opened  wide  eyes  of  dismay.  A  brief  fit  of 
madness  seized  him. 

"  But  Bons  shall  not  tie !  .  .  ."  he  cried  aloud.  "  I 
shall  safe  him !  " 

"  You  cannot  go  without  sleep  much  longer,  and  who  will 
take  your  place?  Someone  must  look  after  M.  Pons,  and 
give  him  drink,  and  nurse  him " 

"  Ah !  dat  is  drue." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Abbe,  "  I  am  thinking  of  sending 
you  Mme.  Cantinet,  a  good  and  honest  creature " 

The  practical  details  of  the  care  of  the  dead  bewildered 
Schmucke,  till  he  was  fain  to  die  with  his  friend. 

"  He  is  a  child,"  said  the  doctor,  turning  to  the  Abbe 
Duplanty. 

"  Ein  child,"  Schmucke  repeated  mechanically. 

"  There,  then,"  said  the  curate ;  "  I  will  speak  to  Mme. 
Cantinet,  and  send  her  to  you." 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself,"  said  the  doctor ;  "  I  am  going 
home,  and  she  lives  in  the  next  house." 

The  dying  seem  to  struggle  with  Death  as  with  an  in- 
visible assassin ;  in  the  agony  at  the  last,  as  the  final  thrust 
is  made,  the  act  of  dying  seems  to  be  a  conflict,  a  hand-to- 
hand  fight  for  life.  Pons  had  reached  the  supreme  moment. 
At  the  sound  of  his  groans  and  cries,  the  three  standing  in 
the  doorway  hurried  to  the  bedside.  Then  came  the  last 
blow,  smiting  asunder  the  bonds  between  soul  and  body, 
striking  down  to  life's  sources ;  and  suddenly  Pons  regained 
for  a  few  brief  moments  the  perfect  calm  that  follows  the 
struggle.  He  came  to  himself,  and  with  the  serenity  of 
death  in  his  face  he  looked  round  almost  smilingly  at  them. 

"  Ah,  doctor,  I  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it ;  but  you  were 
right,  I  am  doing  better.  Thank  you,  my  good  Abbe;  I 
was  wondering  what  had  become  of  Schmucke " 

"  Schmucke  has  had  nothing  to  eat  since  yesterday  even- 
ing, and  now  it  is  four  o'clock!  You  have  no  one  with  you 
now,  and  it  would  not  be  wise  to  send  for  Mme.  Cibot." 

"  She  is  capable  of  anything !  "  said  Pons,  without  attempt- 


COUSIN  PONS  255 

ing  to  conceal  all  his  abhorrence  at  the  sound  of  her  name. 
*'  It  is  true,  Schmucke  ought  to  have  some  trustworthy 
person." 

"  M.  Duplanty  and  I  have  been  thinking  about  you 
both " 

"  Ah !  thank  you,  I  had  not  thought  of  that." 

"  — and  M.  Duplanty  suggests  that  you  should  have 
Mme.  Cantinet " 

"  Oh !  Mme.  Cantinet  who  lets  the  chairs ! "  exclaimed 
Pons.     "  Yes ;  she  is  an  excellent  creature." 

"  She  has  no  liking  for  Mme.  Cibot,"  continued  the  doctor, 
"  and  she  would  take  good  care  of  M.  Schmucke " 

"  Send  her  to  me,  M.  Duplanty  .  .  .  send  her  and 
her  husband  too.  I  shall  be  easy.  Nothing  will  be  stolen 
here." 

Schmucke  had  taken  Pons's  hand  again,  and  held  it  joy- 
ously in  his  own.     Pons  was  almost  well  again,  he  thought. 

"  Let  us  go,  M.  I'Abbe,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  will  send 
Mme.  Cantinet  round  at  once.  I  see  how  it  is.  She  perhaps 
may  not  find  M.  Pons  alive." 

While  the  Abbe  Duplanty  was  persuading  Pons  to  engage 
Mme.  Cantinet  as  his  nurse,  Fraisier  had  sent  for  her.  He 
had  plied  the  beadle's  wife  with  sophistical  reasoning  and 
subtlety.  It  was  difficult  to  resist  his  corrupting  influence. 
And  as  for  Mme.  Cantinet — a  lean,  sallow  woman,  with  large 
teeth  and  thin  lips — her  intelligence,  as  so  often  happens  with 
women  of  the  people,  had  been  blunted  by  a  hard  life,  till 
she  had  come  to  look  upon  the  slenderest  daily  wage  as 
prosperity.  She  soon  consented  to  take  Mme.  Sauvage  with 
her  as  general  servant. 

Mme.  Sauvage  had  had  her  instructions  already.  She 
had  undertaken  to  weave  a  web  of  iron  wire  about  the  two 
musicians,  and  to  watch  them  as  a  spider  watches  a  fly 
caught  in  the  toils ;  and  her  reward  was  to  be  a  tobacconist's 
license.  Fraisier  had  found  a  convenient  opportunity  of 
getting  rid  of  his  so-called  foster-mother,  while  he  posted 
Jier  as  a  detective  and  policeman  to  supervise  Mme.  Cantinet. 
As  there  was  a  servant's  bedroom  and  a  little  kitchen  included 


256  COUSIN  PONS 

in  the  apartment,  La  Sauvage  could  sleep  on  a  truclde-bed 
and  cook  for  the  German.  Dr.  Poulain  came  with  the  two 
women  just  as  Pons  drew  his  last  breath.  Schmucke  was 
sitting  beside  his  friend,  all  unconscious  of  the  crisis,  holding 
the  hand  that  slowly  grew  colder  in  his  grasp.  He  signed 
to  Mme.  Cantinet  to  be  silent ;  but  Mme.  Sauvage's  soldierly 
figure  surprised  him  so  much  that  he  started  in  spite  of 
himself,  a  kind  of  homage  to  which  the  -virago  was  quite 
accustomed. 

"  M.  Duplanty  answers  for  this  lady,"  whispered  Mme. 
Cantinet  by  way  of  introduction.  "  She  once  was  cook  to 
a  bishop ;  she  is  honesty  itself ;  she  will  do  the  cooking," 

"  Oh !  you  may  talk  out  loud,"  wheezed  the  stalwart  dame. 
*'  The  poor  gentleman  is  dead.  .  .  .  He  has  just 
gone." 

A  shrill  cry  broke  from  Schmucke.  He  felt  Pons's  cold 
hand  stiffening  in  his,  and  sat  staring  into  his  friend's  eyes ; 
the  look  in  them  would  have  driven  him  mad,  if  Mme. 
Sauvage,  doubtless  accustomed  to  scenes  of  this  sort,  had 
not  come  to  the  bedside  with  a  mirror,  which  she  held  over 
the  lips  of  the  dead.  When  she  saw  that  there  was  no  mist 
upon  the  surface,  she  briskly  snatched  Schmucke's  hand 
away. 

"  Just  take  away  your  hand,  sir ;  you  may  not  be  able 
to  do  it  in  a  little  while.  You  do  not  know  how  the  bones 
harden.  A  corpse  grows  cold  very  quickly.  If  you  do  not 
lay  out  a  body  while  it  is  warm,  you  have  to  break  the  joints 
later  on     .     .     ." 

And  so  it  was  this  terrible  woman  who  closed  the  poor 
dead  musician's  eyes. 

With  a  businesslike  dexterity  acquired  in  ten  years  of 
experience,  she  stripped  and  straightened  the  body,  laid  the 
arms  by  the  sides,  and  covered  the  face  with  the  bedclothes, 
exactly  as  a  shopman  wraps  a  parcel. 

"  A  sheet  will  be  wanted  to  lay  him  out. — ^Where  is  there 
a  sheet.?"  she  demanded,  turning  on  the  terror-stricken 
Schmucke. 

He  had  watched  the  religious  ritual  with  its  deep  rever- 
ence for  the  creature  made  for  such  high  destinies  in  heaven ; 


COUSIN  PONS  257 

and  now  he  saw  his  dead  friend  treated  simply  as  a  thing 
in  this  packing  process — saw  with  the  sharp  pain  that  dis- 
solves the  very  elements  of  thought. 

"  Do  as  you  vill "  he  answered  mechanically.     The 

innocent  creature  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  had  seen  a 
man  die,  and  that  man  was  Pons,  his  only  friend,  the  one 
human  being  who  understood  him  and  loved  him. 

"  I  will  go  and  ask  Mme.  Cibot  where  the  sheets  are  kept," 
said  La  Sauvage. 

"  A  truckle-bed  will  be  wanted  for  the  person  to  sleep 
upon,"  Mme.  Cantinet  came  to  tell  Schmucke. 

Schmucke  nodded  and  broke  out  into  weeping.  ]VIme. 
Cantinet  left  the  unhappy  man  in  peace;  but  an  hour  later 
she    came    back    to    say — 

"  Have  you  any  money,  sir,  to  pay  for  the  things  ?  " 

The  look  that  Schmucke  gave  Mme.  Cantinet  would  have 
disarmed  the  fiercest  hate ;  it  was  the  white,  blank,  peaked 
face  of  death  that  he  turned  upon  her,  as  an  explanation 
that    met    everything, 

"  Dake  it  all  and  leaf  me  to  mein  prayers  and  tears," 
he  said,  and  knelt. 

Mme.  Sauvage  went  to  Fraisier  with  the  news  of  Pons's 
death.  Fraisier  took  a  cab  and  went  to  the  Presidente. 
To-morrow  she  must  give  him  the  power  of  attorney  to 
enable  him  to  act  for  the  heirs. 

Another  hour  went  by,  and  Mme.  Cantinet  came  again 
to  Schmucke. 

"  I  have  been  to  Mme.  Cibot,  sir,  who  knows  all  about 
things  here,"  she  said.  "  I  asked  her  to  tell  me  where  every- 
thing is  kept.  But  she  almost  jawed  me  to  death  with  her 
abuse.      .      .     .      Sir,  do  listen  to  me.      .      .      ." 

Schmucke  looked  up  at  the  woman,  and  she  went  on,  inno- 
cent of  any  barbarous  intention,  for  women  of  her  class  are 
accustomed  to  take  the  worst  of  moral  suffering  passively, 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  We  must  have  linen  for  the  shroud,  sir ;  we  must  have 
money  to  buy  a  truckle-bed  for  the  person  to  sleep  upon, 
and  some  things  for  the  kitchen — plates,  and  dishes,  and 
glasses,  for  a  priest  will  be  coming  to  pass  the  night  here, 


258  COUSIN  PONS 

and  the  person  says  that  there  Is  absolutely  nothing  In  the 
kitchen." 

"  And  what  is  more,  sir,  I  must  have  coal  and  firing  if 
I  am  to  get  the  dinner  ready,"  echoed  La  Sauvage,  "  and  not 
a  thing  can  I  find.  Not  that  there  is  anything  so  very  sur- 
prising In  that,  as  La  Cibot  used  to  do  everything  for 
you " 

Schmucke  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  dead;  he  heard  nothing, 
knew  nothing,  saw  nothing.  Mme.  Cantinet  pointed  to  him. 
"  My  dear  woman,  you  would  not  believe  me,"  she  said. 
"  Whatever  you  say,  he  does  not  answer." 

"  Very  well,  child,"  said  La  Sauvage ;  "  now  I  will  show 
you  what  to  do  in  a  case  of  this  kind." 

She  looked  round  the  room  as  a  thief  looks  in  search  of 
possible  hiding-places  for  money;  then  she  went  straight  to 
Pons's  chest,  opened  the  first  drawer,  saw  the  bag  in  which 
Schmucke  had  put  the  rest  of  the  money  after  the  sale  of 
the  pictures,  and  held  it  up  before  him.  He  nodded  mechan- 
ically. 

"  Here  is  money,  child,"  said  La  Sauvage,  turning  to 
Mme.  Cantinet.  "  I  will  count  it  first  and  take  enough  to 
buy  everything  we  want — wine,  provisions,  wax-candles,  all 
sorts  of  things,  in  fact,  for  there  is  nothing  in  the  house. 
Just  look  in  the  drawers  for  a  sheet  to  bury  him  in. 
I  certainly  was  told  that  the  poor  gentleman  was  simple, 
but  I  don't  know  what  he  is ;  he  is  worse.  He  is  like  a  new- 
born child ;  we  shall  have  to  feed  him  with  a  funnel." 

The  women  went  about  their  work,  and  Schmucke  looked 
on  precisely  as  an  idiot  might  have  done.  Broken  down  with 
sorrow,  wholly  absorbed,  in  a  half-cataleptic  state,  he  could 
not  take  his  eyes  from  the  face  that  seemed  to  fascinate  him, 
Pons's  face,  refined  by  the  absolute  repose  of  Death. 
Schmucke  hoped  to  die ;  everything  was  alike  indifferent.  If 
the  room  had  been  on  fire  he  would  not  have  stirred. 

"  There  are  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  francs  here,"  La 
Sauvage  told  liim. 

Schmucke  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

But  when  La  Sauvage  came  near  to  measure  the  body  by 
laying  the  sheet  over  it,  before  cutting  out  the  shroud,  a 


COUSIN  PONS  259 

horrible  struggle  ensued  between  her  and  the  poor  German. 
Schmucke  was  furious.  He  behaved  like  a  dog  that  watches 
by  his  dead  master's  body,  and  shows  his  teeth  at  all  who 
try  to  touch  it.  La  Sauvage  grew  impatient.  She  grasped 
him,  set  him  in  the  armchair,  and  held  him  down  with  hercu- 
lean strength. 

"  Go  on,  child ;  sew  him  in  his  shroud,"  she  said,  turning 
to  Mme.   Cantinet. 

As  soon  as  this  operation  was  completed,  La  Sauvage 
set  Schmucke  back  in  his  place  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"  Do  you  understand  ? "  said  she.  "  The  poor  dead 
man  lying  there  must  be  done  up,  there  is  no  help  for 
it." 

Schmucke  began  to  cry.  The  women  left  him  and  took 
possession  of  the  kitchen,  whither  they  brought  all  the  neces- 
saries in  a  very  short  time.  La  Sauvage  made  out  a  pre- 
liminary statement  accounting  for  three  hundred  and  sixty 
francs,  and  then  proceeded  to  prepare  a  dinner  for  four 
persons.  And  what  a  dinner!  A  fat  goose  (the  cobbler's 
pheasant)  by  way  of  a  substantial  roast,  an  omelette  with 
preserves,  a  salad,  and  the  inevitable  broth — the  quantities 
of  the  ingredients  for  this  last  being  so  excessive  that  the 
soup  was  more  like  a  strong  meat- jelly. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  priest,  sent  by  the  cure  to  watch 
by  the  dead,  came  in  with  Cantinet,  who  brought  four  tall 
wax  candles  and  some  tapers.  In  the  death-chamber 
Schmucke  was  lying  with  his  arms  about  the  body  of  his 
friend,  holding  him  in  a  tight  clasp ;  nothing  but  the  authority 
of  religion  availed  to  separate  him  from  his  dead.  Then  the 
priest  settled  himself  comfortably  in  the  easy-chair  and 
read  his  prayers ;  while  Schmucke,  kneehng  beside  the  couch, 
besought  God  to  work  a  miracle  and  unite  him  to  Pons,  so 
that  they  might  be  buried  in  the  same  grave;  and  Mme. 
Cantinet  went  on  her  way  to  the  Temple  to  buy  a  pallet 
and  complete  bedding  for  Mme.  Sauvage.  The  twelve  hun- 
dred and  fifty  francs  were  regarded  as  plunder.  At  eleven 
o'clock  Mme,  Cantinet  came  in  to  ask  if  Schmucke  would 
not  eat  a  morsel,  but  with  a  gesture  he  signified  that  he 
wished  to  be  left  in  peace. 


260  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Your  supper  is  ready,  M.  Pastelot,"  she  said,  addressing 
the  priest,  and  they  went. 

Schmucke,  left  alone  in  the  room,  smiled  to  himself  like  a 
madman  free  at  last  to  gratify  a  desire  like  the  longing  of 
pregnancy.  He  flung  himself  down  beside  Pons,  and  yet 
again  he  held  his  friend  in  a  long,  close  embrace.  At  mid- 
night the  priest  came  back  and  scolded  him,  and  Schmucke 
returned  to  his  prayers.  At  daybreak  the  priest  went,  and 
at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  doctor  came  to  see 
Schmucke,  and  spoke  kindly  and  tried  hard  to  persuade  him 
to  eat,  but  the  German  refused. 

"  If  you  do  not  eat  now  you  will  feel  very  hungry  when 
you  come  back,"  the  doctor  told  him,  "  for  you  must  go  to 
the  mayor's  office  and  take  a  witness  with  you,  so  that  the 
registrar  may  issue  a  certificate  of  death." 

"  I  must  go !  "  cried  Schmucke  in  frightened  tones. 

*'  Who  else  ?  .  .  .  You  must  go,  for  you  were  the  one 
person  who  saw  him  die." 

"  Mein  legs  vill  nicht  carry  me,"  pleaded  Schmucke,  im- 
ploring the  doctor  to  come  to  the  rescue. 

"  Take  a  cab,"  the  hypocritical  doctor  blandly  suggested. 
"  I  have  given  notice  alread3^  Ask  someone  in  the  house  to 
go  with  you.  The  two  women  will  look  after  the  place  while 
you  are  away." 

No  one  imagines  how  the  requirements  of  the  law  jar  upon 
a  heartfelt  sorrow.  The  thought  of  it  is  enough  to  make 
one  turn  from  civilization  and  choose  rather  the  customs 
of  the  savage.  At  nine  o'clock  that  morning  Mme.  Sauvage 
half-carried  Schmucke  downstairs,  and  from  the  cab  he  was 
obliged  to  beg  Remonencq  to  come  with  him  to  the  registrar 
as  a  second  witness.  Here  in  Paris,  in  this  land  of  ours 
besotted  with  Equality,  the  inequality  of  conditions  is  glar- 
ingly apparent  everywhere  and  in  everything.  The  immu- 
table tendency  of  things  peeps  out  even  in  the  practical 
aspects  of  death.  In  well-to-do  families,  a  relative,  a  friend, 
or  a  man  of  business  spares  the  mourners  these  painful  de- 
tails ;  but  in  this,  as  in  the  matter  of  taxation,  the  whole 
burden  falls  heaviest  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  poor. 

"  Ah !  you  have  good  reason  to  regret  him,"  said  Remo- 


COUSIN  PONS  261 

nencq  in  answer  to  the  poor  martyr's  moan ;  "  he  was  a  very 
good,  a  very  honest  man,  and  he  has  left  a  fine  collection 
behind  him.  But  being  a  foreigner,  sir,  do  you  know  that 
you  are  Hke  to  find  yourself  in  a  great  predicament — for 
everybody  says  that  M.  Pons  left  everything  to  you?  " 

Schmucke  was  not  listening.  He  was  sounding  the  dark 
depths  of  sorrow  that  border  upon  madness.  There  is  such 
a  thing  as  tetanus  of  the  soul. 

"  And  you  would  do  well  to  find  someone — some  man  of 
business — to  advise  you  and  act  for  you,"  pursued  Remo- 
nencq. 

"  Ein  mann  of  pizness ! "  echoed  Schmucke. 

"  You  will  find  that  you  will  want  someone  to  act  for  you. 
If  I  were  you,  I  should  take  an  experienced  man,  somebody 
well  known  in  the  quarter,  a  man  you  can  trust.  ...  I 
always  go  to  Tabareau  myself  for  my  bits  of  aflPairs — he 
is  the  bailiff.  If  you  give  his  clerk  power  to  act  for  you, 
you  need  not  trouble  yourself  any  further." 

Remonencq  and  La  Cibot,  prompted  by  Fraisier,  had 
agreed  beforehand  to  make  a  suggestion  which  stuck  in 
Schmucke's  memory ;  for  there  are  times  in  our  lives  when 
grief,  as  it  were,  congeals  the  mind  by  arresting  all  its 
functions,  and  any  chance  impression  made  at  such  moments 
is  retained  by  a  frost-bound  memory.  Schmucke  heard  his 
companion  with  such  a  fixed,  mindless  stare,  that  Remonencq 
said  no  more. 

"  If  he  is  always  to  be  idiotic  like  this,"  thought  Remo- 
nencq, "  I  might  easily  buy  the  whole  bag  of  tricks  up  yonder 
for  a  hundred  thousand  francs ;  if  it  is  really  his. 
Here  we  are  at  the  mayor's  office,  sir." 

Remonencq  was  obliged  to  take  Schmucke  out  of  the  cab 
and  to  half-carry  him  to  the  registrar's  department,  where 
a  wedding-party  was  assembled.  Here  they  had  to  wait  for 
their  turn,  for,  by  no  very  uncommon  chance,  the  clerk  had 
five  or  six  certificates  to  make  out  that  morning ;  and  here 
it  was  appointed  that  poor  Schmucke  should  suffer  ex- 
cruciating anguish. 

"Monsieur  is  M.  Schmucke?"  remarked  a  person  in  a 
suit  of  black,  reducing  Schmucke  to  stupefaction  by  the  men- 


262  COUSIN  PONS 

tion  of  his  name.  He  looked  up  with  the  same  blank,  unsee- 
ing eyes  that  he  had  turned  upon  Remonencq,  who  now  inter- 
posed. 

"What  do  you  want  with  him?"  he  said.  "Just  leave 
him  in  peace ;  you  can  see  plainly  that  he  is  in  trouble." 

"  The  gentleman  has  just  lost  his  friend,  and  proposes, 
no  doubt,  to  do  honor  to  his  memory,  being,  as  he  is,  the 
sole  heir.  The  gentleman,  no  doubt,  will  not  haggle  over 
it ;  he  will  buy  a  piece  of  ground  outright  for  a  grave. 
And  as  M.  Pons  was  such  a  lover  of  the  arts,  it  would  be 
a  great  pity  not  to  put  Music,  Painting,  and  Sculpture  on 
his  tomb — three  handsome  full-length  figures,  weeping " 

Remonencq  waved  the  speaker  away,  in  Auvergnat  fashion, 
but  the  man  replied  with  another  gesture,  which  being  in- 
terpreted means  "  Don't  spoil  sport " ;  a  piece  of  commercial 
freemasonry,  as  it  were,  which  the  dealer  understood. 

"  I  represent  the  firm  of  Sonet  and  Company,  monumental 
stone-masons  ;  Sir  Walter  Scott  would  have  dubbed  me  Young 
3Iortalitij,"  continued  this  person.  "  If  you,  sir,  should 
decide  to  intrust  your  orders  to  us,  we  would  spare  you  the 
trouble  of  the  journey  to  purchase  the  ground  necessary  for 
the  interment  of  a  friend  lost  to  the  arts " 

At  this  Remonencq  nodded  assent,  and  jogged  Schmucke's 
elbow. 

"  Every  day  we  receive  orders  from  families  to  arrange 
all  formalities,"  continued  he  of  the  black  coat,  thus  en- 
couraged by  Remonencq.  "  In  the  first  moment  of  bereave- 
ment, the  heir-at-law  finds  it  very  difficult  to  attend  to  such 
matters,  and  we  are  accustomed  to  perform  these  little  serv- 
ices for  our  clients.  Our  charges,  sir,  are  on  a  fixed  scale, 
so  much  per  foot,  freestone  or  marble.  Family  vaults  a 
specialty. — We  undertake  everything  at  the  most  moderate 
prices.  Our  firm  executed  the  magnificent  monument  erected 
to  the  fair  Esther  Gobseck  and  Lucien  de  Rubempre,  one  of 
the  finest  ornaments  of  Pere-Lachaise.  We  only  employ  the 
best  workmen,  and  I  must  warn  you,  sir,  against  small 
contractors — who  turn  out  nothing  but  trash,"  he  added, 
seeing  that  another  person  in  a  black  suit  was  coming  up 
to  say  a  word  for  another  firm  of  marble-workers. 


COUSIN  PONS  263 

It  is  often  said  that  "death  is  the  end  of  a  journey," 
but  the  aptness  of  the  simile  is  reahzed  most  fully  in  Paris. 
Any  arrival,  especially  of  a  person  of  condition,  upon  the 
"  dark  brink,"  is  hailed  in  much  the  same  way  as  the  trav- 
eler recently  landed  is  hailed  by  hotel  touts  and  pestered 
with  their  recommendations.  With  the  exception  of  a  few 
philosophically-minded  persons,  or  here  and  there  a  family 
secure  of  handing  down  a  name  to  posterity,  nobody  thinks 
beforehand  of  the  practical  aspects  of  death.  Death  always 
comes  before  he  is  expected;  and,  from  a  sentiment  easy  to 
understand,  the  heirs  usually  act  as  if  the  event  were  im- 
possible. For  which  reason,  almost  everyone  that  loses 
father  or  mother,  wife  or  child,  is  immediately  beset  by  scouts 
that  profit  by  the  confusion  caused  by  grief  to  snare  orders. 
In  former  days,  agents  for  monuments  used  to  live  round- 
about the  famous  cemetery  of  Pere-Lachaise,  and  were  gath- 
ered together  in  a  single  thoroughfare  which  should  by  rights 
have  been  called  the  Street  of  Tombs ;  issuing  thence,  they 
fell  upon  the  relatives  of  the  dead  as  they  came  from  the 
cemetery,  or  even  at  the  grave-side.  But  competition  and 
the  spirit  of  speculation  induced  them  to  spread  themselves 
further  and  further  afield,  till,  descending  into  Paris  itself, 
they  reached  the  very  precincts  of  the  mayor's  office.  In- 
deed, the  stone-mason's  agent  has  often  been  known  to  invade 
the  house  of  mourning  with  a  design  for  the  sepulcher  in 
his   hand. 

"  I  am  in  treaty  with  this  gentleman,"  said  the  representa- 
tive of  the  firm  of  Sonet  to  another  agent  who  came  up. 

"  Pons  deceased !  .  .  ."  called  the  clerk  at  this  mo- 
ment.    "Where  are  the  witnesses?" 

"  This  way,  sir,"  said  the  stone-mason's  agent,  this  time 
addressing  Remonencq. 

Schmucke  stayed  where  he  had  been  placed  on  the  bench, 
an  inert  mass.  Remonencq  begged  the  agent  to  help  him, 
and  together  they  pulled  Schmucke  towards  the  balustrade, 
behind  which  the  registrar  shelters  himself  from  the  mourning 
public.  Remonencq,  Schmucke's  Providence,  was  assisted 
by  Dr.  Poulain,  who  filled  in  the  necessary  information  as  to 
Pons's  age  and  birthplace ;  the  German  knew  but  one  thing — 


264.  COUSIN  PONS 

that  Pons  was  his  friend.  So  soon  as  the  signatures  were 
afiixed,  Remonencq  and  the  doctor  (followed  by  the  stone- 
mason's man),  put  Schmucke  into  a  cab,  the  desperate  agent 
whisking  in  afterwards,  bent  upon  taking  a  definite  order. 

La  Sauvage,  on  the  lookout  in  the  gateway,  half-carried 
Schmucke's  almost  unconscious  form  upstairs.  Remonencq 
and  the  agent  went  up  with  her. 

"  He  will  be  ill  1 "  exclaimed  the  agent,  anxious  to  make 
an  end  of  the  piece  of  business  which,  according  to  him, 
was  in  progress. 

"  I  should  think  he  will !  "  returned  Mme.  Sauvage.  *'  He 
has  been  crying  for  twenty-four  hours  on  end,  and  he  would 
not  take  anything.  There  is  nothing  like  grief  for  giving 
one  a  sinking  in  the  stomach." 

"  My  dear  client,"  urged  the  representative  of  the  firm  of 
Sonet,  "  do  take  some  broth.  You  have  so  much  to  do ;  some- 
one must  go  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville  to  buy  the  ground  in  the 
cemetery  on  which  you  mean  to  erect  a  monument  to  per- 
petuate the  memory  of  the  friend  of  the  arts,  and  bear 
record  to  your  gratitude." 

"  Why,  there  is  no  sense  in  this ! "  added  Mme.  Cantinet, 
coming  in  with  broth  and  bread. 

"  If  you  are  as  weak  as  this,  you  ought  to  think  of  finding 
someone  to  act  for  you,"  added  Remonencq,  "  for  you  have 
a  good  deal  on  your  hands,  my  dear  sir.  There  is  the  funeral 
to  order.  You  would  not  have  your  friend  buried  like  a 
pauper ! " 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear  sir,"  put  in  La  Sauvage,  seizing 
a  moment  when  Schmucke  laid  his  head  back  in  the  great 
chair  to  pour  a  spoonful  of  soup  into  his  mouth.  She  fed 
him  as  if  he  had  been  a  child,  and  almost  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Now,  if  you  were  wise,  sir,  since  you  are  inclined  to 
give  yourself  up  quietly  to  grief,  you  would  find  someone 
to  act  for  you " 

"  As  you  are  thinking  of  raising  a  magnificent  monument 
to  the  memory  of  your  friend,  sir,  you  have  only  to  leave 
it  all  to  me ;  I  will  undertake " 

"  What  is  all  this?  What  is  all  this.?  "  asked  La  Sauvage. 
*'  Has  M.  Schmucke  ordered  something.''     Who  may  you  be.'*  " 


COUSIN  PONS  365 

**  I  represent  the  firm  of  Sonet,  my  dear  Madame,  the 
biggest  monumental  stone-masons  in  Paris,"  said  the  person 
in  black,  handing  a  business-card  to  the  stalwart  Sauvage. 

"  Very  well,  that  will  do.  Someone  will  go  to  you  when 
the  time  comes ;  but  you  must  not  take  advantage  of  the 
gentleman's  condition  now.  You  can  quite  see  that  he  is 
not  himself " 

The  agent  led  her  out  upon  the  landing. 

"  If  you  will  undertake  to  get  the  order  for  us,"  he  said 
confidentially,  "  I  am  empowered  to  offer  you  forty  francs." 

Mme.  Sauvage  grew  placable.  "  Very  well,  let  me  have 
your  address,"  said  she. 

Schmucke  meantime  being  left  to  himself,  and  feeling  the 
stronger  for  the  soup  and  bread  that  he  had  been  forced 
to  swallow,  returned  at  once  to  Pons's  room,  and  to  his 
prayers.  He  had  lost  himself  in  the  fathomless  depths  of 
sorrow,  when  a  voice  sounding  in  his  ears  drew  him  back 
from  the  abyss  of  grief,  and  a  young  man  in  a  suit  of 
black  returned  for  the  eleventh  time  to  the  charge,  pulling 
the  poor,  tortured  victim's  coatsleeve  until  he  listened. 

"  Sir !  "  said  he. 

"  Vat  ees  it  now.?  " 

"  Sir !  we  owe  a  supreme  discovery  to  Dr,  Gannal :  we 
'do  not  dispute  his  fame,  he  has  worked  the  miracles  of  Egypt 
afresh ;  but  there  have  been  improvements  made  upon  his  sys- 
tem. We  have  obtained  surprising  results.  So,  if  you 
would  like  to  see  your  friend  again,  as  he  was  when  he  was 
alive " 

"  See  him  again ! "  cried  Schmucke.  *'  Shall  he  speak 
to  me?" 

"  Not  exactly.  Speech  is  the  only  thing  wanting,"  con- 
tinued the  embalmer's  agent.  "  But  he  will  remain  as  he  is 
after  embalming  for  all  eternity.  The  operation  is  over 
in  a  few  seconds.  Just  an  incision  in  the  carotid  artery  and 
an  injection. — But  it  is  high  time;  if  you  wait  one  single 
quarter  of  an  hour,  sir,  you  will  not  have  the  sweet  satis- 
faction of  preserving  the  body     .      .      ." 

"  Go  to  der  teufel !  .  .  .  Bons  is  ein  spirit — und  dat 
spirit  is  in  hefn." 


.^66  COUSIN  PONS 

"  That  man  has  no  gratitude  in  his  composition,"  re- 
marked the  youthful  agent  of  one  of  the  famous  Gannal's 
rivals ;  "  he  will  not  embalm  his  friend." 

The  words  were  spoken  under  the  archway,  and  addressed 
to  La  Cibot,  who  had  just  submitted  her  beloved  to  the 
process. 

"  What  would  you  have,  sir?  "  she  said.  "  He  is  the  heir, 
the  universal  legatee.  As  soon  as  they  get  what  they  want, 
the  dead  are  nothing  to  them." 

An  hour  later,  Schmucke  saw  Mme.  Sauvage  come  into 
the  room,  followed  by  another  man  in  a  suit  of  black,  a 
workman  to  all  appearance. 

"  Cantinet  has  been  so  obliging  as  to  send  this  gentleman, 
sir,"  she  said ;  "  he  is  coffin-maker  to  the  parish." 

The  coffin-maker  made  his  bow  with  a  sympathetic  and 
compassionate  air,  but  none  the  less  he  had  a  businesslike 
look,  and  seemed  to  know  that  he  was  indispensable.  He 
turned  an  expert's  eye  upon  the  dead. 

"  How  does  the  gentleman  wish  '  it '  to  be  made?  Deal, 
plain  oak,  or  oak  lead-lined?  Oak  with  a  lead  lining  is  the 
best  style.  The  body  is  a  stock  size," — he  felt  for  the 
feet  and  proceeded  to  take  the  measure — "  one  meter  sev- 
enty !  "  he  added.  "  You  will  be  thinking  of  ordering  the 
funeral  service  at  the  church,  sir,  no  doubt  ?  " 

Schmucke  looked  at  him  as  a  dangerous  madman  might 
look  before  striking  a  blow.     La  Sauvage  put  in  a  word. 

"  You  ought  to  find  somebody  to  look  after  all  these 
things,"  she  said. 

"  Yes "  the  victim  murmured  at  length. 

"  Shall  I  fetch  M.  Tabareau.'' — for  you  will  have  a  good 
deal  on  your  hands  before  long.  M.  Tabareau  is  the  most 
honest  man  in  the  quarter,  you  see." 

"  Yes.  Mennsir  Dapareau !  Somepody  vas  speaking 
of  him  chust  now "  said  Schmucke,  completely  beaten. 

"  Very  well.  You  can  be  quiet,  sir,  and  give  yourself  up 
to  grief,  when  you  have  seen  your  deputy." 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  when  M.  Tabareau's  head-clerk, 
a  young  man  who  aimed  at  a  bailiff's  career,  modestly  pre- 
sented himself.     Youth  has  wonderful  privileges ;  no  one  is 


COUSIN  PONS  26T 

alarmed  by  youth.  This  young  man,  Villemot  by  name,  sat 
down  by  Schmucke's  side  and  waited  his  opportunity  to  speak. 
His  diffidence  touched  Schmucke  very  much. 

"  I  am  M.  Tabareau's  head-clerk,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  he  sent 
me  here  to  take  charge  of  your  interests,  and  to  superintend 
the  funeral  arrangements.      Is  this  your  wish.''  " 

"  You  cannot  safe  my  life,  I  haf  not  long  to  lif ;  but  you 
vill  leaf  me  in  beace !  " 

"  Oh !  you  shall  not  be  disturbed,"  said  Villemot. 

"  Ver'  goot.        Vat  must  I  do  for  dat.'*  " 

"  Sign  this  paper  appointing  M.  Tabareau  to  act  for  you 
in  all  matters  relating  to  the  settlement  of  the  affairs  of  the 
deceased." 

"  Goot !  gif  it  to  me,"  said  Schmucke,  anxious  only  to  sign 
it  at  once. 

"  No,  I  must  read  it  over  to  you  first." 

"  Read  it  ofer." 

Schmucke  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  the  reading 
of  the  power  of  attorney,  but  he  set  his  name  to  it.  The 
young  clerk  took  Schmucke's  orders  for  the  funeral,  the 
interment,  and  the  burial  service ;  undertaking  that  he  should 
not  be  troubled  again  in  any  way,  nor  asked  for  money. 

"  I  vould  gif  all  dat  I  haf  to  pe  left  in  beace,"  said  the 
unhappy  man.  And  once  more  he  knelt  beside  the  dead  body 
of  his  friend. 

Fraisier  had  triumphed.  Villemot  and  La  Sauvage 
completed  the  circle  which  he  had  traced  about  Pons's 
heir. 

There  is  no  sorrow  that  sleep  cannot  overcome.  Towards 
the  end  of  the  day  La  Sauvage,  coming  in,  found  Schmucke 
stretched  asleep  at  the  bed-foot.  She  carried  him  off,  put 
him  to  bed,  tucked  him  in  maternally,  and  till  the  morning 
Schmucke  slept. 

When  he  awoke,  or  rather  when  the  truce  was  over  and 
he  again  became  conscious  of  his  sorrows,  Pons's  coffin  lay 
under  the  gateway  in  such  state  as  a  third-class  funeral 
may  claim,  and  Schmucke,  seeking  vainly  for  his  friend, 
wandered  from  room  to  room,  across  vast  spaces,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,   empty  of  everything  save  hideous  memories.     La 


268  COUSIN  PONS 

Sauvage  took  him  in  hand,  much  as  a  nurse  manages  a  child ; 
she  made  him  take  his  breakfast  before  starting  for  the 
church ;  and  while  the  poor  sufferer  forced  himself  to  eat, 
she  discovered,  with  lamentations  worthy  of  Jeremiah,  that 
he  had  not  a  black  coat  in  his  possession.  La  Cibot  took 
entire  charge  of  his  wardrobe ;  since  Pons  fell  ill  his  apparel, 
like  his  dinner,  had  been  reduced  to  the  lowest  terms — ^to  a 
couple  of  coats  and  two  pairs  of  trousers. 

"And  you  are  going  just  as  you  are  to  M.  Pons's 
funeral .f^  It  is  an  unheard-of  thing;  the  whole  quarter  will 
cry  shame  upon  us  !  " 

"  Und  how  vill  you  dat  I  go.'' " 

"  Why,  in  mourning " 

*'  Mourning !  " 

"  It  is  the  proper  thing." 

"  Der  bropper  ding !  .  .  .  confound  all  dis  stupid 
nonsense ! "  cried  poor  Schmucke,  driven  to  the  last  degree 
of  exasperation  which  a  childlike  soul  can  reach  under  stress 
of  sorrow. 

"  Why,  the  man  is  a  monster  of  ingratitude ! "  said  La 
Sauvage,  turning  to  a  personage  who  just  then  appeared. 
At  the  sight  of  tliis  functionary  Schmucke  shuddered.  The 
new-comer  wore  a  splendid  suit  of  black,  black  knee-breeches, 
black  silk  stockings,  a  pair  of  white  cuffs,  an  extremely  cor- 
rect white  musHn  tie,  and  white  gloves.  A  silver  chain 
with  a  coin  attached  ornamented  his  person.  A  typical 
official,  stamped  with  the  official  expression  of  decorous 
gloom,  an  ebony  wand  in  his  hand  by  way  of  insignia  of 
office,  he  stood  waiting  with  a  three-cornered  hat  adorned 
with  the  tricolor  cockade  under  his  arm. 

"  I  am  the  master  of  the  ceremonies,"  this  person  re- 
marked in  a  subdued  voice. 

Accustomed  daily  to  superintend  funerals,  to  move  among 
families  plunged  in  one  and  the  same  kind  of  tribulation, 
real  or  feigned,  this  man,  like  the  rest  of  his  fraternity, 
spoke  in  hushed  and  soothing  tones  ;  he  was  decorous,  polished, 
and  formal,  like  an  allegorical  stone  figure  of  Death. 

Schmucke  quivered  through  every  nerve  as  if  he  were  con- 
fronting his  executioner. 


COUSIN  PONS  269 

"  Is  this  gentleman  the  son,  brother,  or  father  of  the 
deceased?  "  inquired  the  official. 

"  I  am  all  dat  und  more  pesides — I  am  his  friend,"  said 
Schmucke  through  a  torrent  of  weeping. 

"  Are  you  his  heir.?  " 

"  Heir.?  .  .  ."  repeated  Schmucke.  "  Noding  matters 
to  me  more  in  dis  vorld,"  returning  to  his  attitude  of  hopeless 
sorrow. 

"  Where  are  the  relatives,  the  friends  ?  "  asked  the  master 
of  the  ceremonies. 

"  All  here !  "  exclaimed  the  German,  indicating  the  pictures 
and  rarities.  "  Not  von  of  dem  haf  efer  gifn  bain  to  mein 
boor  Bons.  .  .  .  Here  ees  everydings  dot  he  lofed,  after 
me." 

"  He  is  off  his  head,  sir,"  put  in  La  Sauvage.  "  It  is  use- 
less to  listen  to  him." 

Schmucke  had  taken  his  seat  again,  and  looked  as  vacant 
as  before;  he  dried  his  eyes  mechanically.  Villemot  came 
up  at  that  moment ;  he  had  ordered  the  funeral,  and  the 
master  of  the  ceremonies,  recognizing  him,  made  an  appeal 
to  the  newcomer. 

"  Well,  sir,  it  is  time  to  start.  The  hearse  is  here ;  but 
I  have  not  often  seen  such  a  funeral  as  this.  Where  are 
the  relatives  and  friends  ?  " 

"  We  have  been  pressed  for  time,"  replied  Villemot.  "  This 
gentleman  was  in  such  deep  grief  that  he  could  think  of 
nothing.     And  there  is  only  one  relative." 

The  master  of  the  ceremonies  looked  compassionately  at 
Schmucke ;  this  expert  in  sorrow  knew  real  grief  when  he 
saw  it.     He  went  across  to  him. 

"  Come,  take  heart,  my  dear  sir.  Think  of  paying  honor 
to  your  friend's  memory." 

"  We  forgot  to  send  out  cards ;  but  I  took  care  to  send  a 
special  message  to  M.  le  President  de  Marville,  the  one  rela- 
tive that  I  mentioned  to  you. — There  are  no  friends. — M. 
Pons  was  conductor  of  an  orchestra  at  a  theater,  but  I  do 
not  think  that  anyone  will  come. — This  gentleman  is  the  uni- 
versal legatee,  I  believe." 

"  Then  he  ought  to  be  chief  mourner,"  said  the  master  of 


^70  COUSIN  PONS 

the  ceremonies. — "  Have  you  not  a  black  coat?  "  he  con- 
tinued,  noticing   Schmucke's    costume. 

"  I  am  all  in  plack  insite !  "   poor   Schmucke   replied  in 

heartrending  tones ;  "  so  plack  it  is  dot  I  feel  death  in  me. 

Gott  in  hefn  is  going  to  haf  pity  upon  me;  He 

vill  send  me  to  mein  friend  in  der  grafe,  und  I  dank  Him 

for  it " 

He  clasped  his  hands. 

"  I  have  told  our  management  before  now  that  we  ought 
to  have  a  wardrobe  department  and  lend  the  proper  mourn- 
ing costumes  on  hire,"  said  the  master  of  the  ceremonies, 
addressing  Villemot ;  "  it  is  a  want  that  is  more  and  more 
felt  every  day,  and  we  have  even  now  introduced  improve- 
ments. But  as  this  gentleman  is  chief  mourner  he  ought 
to  wear  a  cloak,  and  this  one  that  I  have  brought  with  me 
will  cover  him  from  head  to  foot ;  no  one  need  know  that 
he  is  not  in  proper  mourning  costume. — Will  you  be  so  kind 
as  to  rise  ?  " 

Schmucke  rose,  but  he  tottered  on  his  feet. 

"  Support  him,"  said  the  master  of  the  ceremonies,  turn- 
ing to  Villemot ;  "  you  are  his  legal  representative." 

Villemot  held  Schmucke's  arm  while  the  master  of  the 
ceremonies  invested  Schmucke  with  the  ample,  dismal-looking 
garment  worn  by  heirs-at-law  in  the  procession  to  and  from 
the  house  and  the  church.  He  tied  the  black  silken 
cords  under  the  chin,  and  Schmucke  as  heir  was  in  "  full 
dress." 

"  And  now  comes  a  great  difficulty,"  continued  the  master 
of  the  ceremonies ;  "  we  want  four  bearers  for  the  pall.  .  .  . 
If  nobody  comes  to  the  funeral,  who  is  to  fill  the  corners? 
It  is  half-past  ten  already,"  he  added,  looking  at  his  watch ; 
"  they  are  waiting  for  us  at  the  church." 

"  Oh !  here  comes  Fraisier ! "  Villemot  exclaimed,  very  im- 
prudently; but  there  was  no  one  to  hear  the  tacit  confession 
of  complicity. 

"  Who  is  this  gentleman  ?  "  inquired  the  master  of  the 
ceremonies. 

"  Oh !  he  comes  on  behalf  of  the  family." 

"Whose  family?" 


COUSIN  PONS  271; 

"  The  disinherited  family.  He  is  M.  Camusot  de  Mar- 
ville's  representative." 

"  Good,"  said  the  master  of  the  ceremonies,  with  a  satis- 
fied air.  *'  We  shall  have  two  pall-bearers  at  any  rate— 
you  and  he." 

And,  happy  to  find  two  of  the  places  filled  up,  he  took 
out  some  wonderful  white  buckskin  gloves,  and  poHtely  pre- 
sented Fraisier  and  Villemot  with  a  pair  apiece. 

"  If  you  gentlemen  will  be  so  good  as  to  act  as  pall- 
bearers  "  said  he. 

Fraisier,  in  black  from  head  to  foot,  pretentiously  dressed, 
with  his  white  tie  and  official  air,  was  a  sight  to  shudder  at ; 
he  embodied  a  hundred  briefs. 

"  Willingly,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  If  only  two  more  persons  will  come,  the  four  corners  will 
be  filled  up,"  said  the  master  of  the  ceremonies. 

At  that  very  moment  the  indefatigable  representative  of 
the  firm  of  Sonet  came  up,  and,  closely  following  him,  the 
one  man  who  remembered  Pons  and  thought  of  paying  him 
a  last  tribute  of  respect.  This  was  a  supernumerary  at 
the  theater,  the  man  who  put  out  the  scores  on  the  music- 
stands  for  the  orchestra.  Pons  had  been  wont  to  give  him  a 
five-franc  piece  once  a  month,  knowing  that  he  had  a  wife 
and  family. 

"  Oh,  Dobinard  [Topinard]  !  "  Schmucke  cried  out  at  the 
sight  of  him,  "  you  love  Pons !  " 

"  Why,  I  have  come  to  ask  news  of  M.  Pons  every  morn- 
ing, sir." 

"  Efery  morning !  boor  Dobinard !  "  and  Schmucke  squeezed 
the  man's  hand. 

"  But  they  took  me  for  a  relation,  no  doubt,  and  did  not 
like  my  visits  at  all.  I  told  them  that  I  belonged  to  the 
theater  and  came  to  inquire  after  M.  Pons ;  but  it  was  no 
good.  They  saw  through  that  dodge,  they  said.  I  asked 
to  see  the  poor  dear  man,  but  they  never  would  let  me  come 
upstairs." 

"  Dat  apominable  Zipod ! "  said  Schmucke,  squeezing 
Topinard's  horny  hand  to  his  heart. 

"  He  was  the  best  of  men,  that  good  M.  Pons.     Every 


272  COUSIN  PONS 

month  he  used  to  give  me  five  francs.  .  .  .  He  knew 
that  I  had  three  children  and  a  wife.  My  wife  has  gone 
to  the  church." 

"  I  shall  difide  mein  pread  mit  you,"  cried  Schmucke,  in 
his  joy  at  finding  at  his  side  someone  who  loved  Pons. 

"  If  this  gentleman  will  take  a  corner  of  the  pall,  we 
shall  have  all  four  filled  up,"  said  the  master  of  the  cere- 
monies. 

There  had  been  no  difficulty  over  persuading  the  agent 
for  monuments.  He  took  a  corner  the  more  readily  when 
he  was  shown  the  handsome  pair  of  gloves  which,  according 
to  custom,  was  to  be  his  property. 

"  A  quarter  to  eleven !  We  absolutely  must  go  down. 
They  are  waiting  for  us  at  the  church." 

The  six  persons  thus  assembled  went  down  the  staircase. 

The  cold-blooded  lawyer  remained  a  moment  to  speak  to 
the  two  women  on  the  landing.  *'  Stop  here,  and  let  nobody 
come  in,"  he  said,  "  especially  if  you  wish  to  remain  in 
charge,  Mme.  Cantinet.  Aha!  two  francs  a  day,  you 
know !  " 

By  a  coincidence  in  nowise  extraordinary  in  Paris,  two 
hearses  were  waiting  at  the  door,  and  two  coffins  standing 
under  the  archway ;  Cibot's  funeral  was  to  take  place  at 
the  same  hour.  Nobody  came  to  pay  any  tribute  of  affection 
to  the  "  deceased  friend  of  the  arts,"  lying  in  state  among 
the  lighted  tapers,  but  every  porter  in  the  neighborhood 
sprinkled  a  drop  of  holy  water  upon  the  second  bier.  And 
this  contrast  between  the  crowd  at  Cibot's  funeral  and  the 
solitary  state  in  which  Pons  was  lying  was  made  even  more 
striking  in  the  street.  Schmucke  was  the  only  mourner  that 
followed  Pons's  coffin ;  Schmucke,  supported  by  one  of  the 
undertaker's  men,  for  he  tottered  at  every  step.  From  the 
Rue  de  Normandie  to  the  Rue  d'Orleans  and  the  church  of 
Saint-Fran9ois  the  two  funerals  went  between  a  double  row 
of  curious  onlookers,  for  everything  (as  was  said  before) 
makes  a  sensation  in  the  quarter.  Everyone  remarked  the 
splendor  of  the  white  funeral  car,  with  a  big  embroidered 
P  suspended  on  a  hatchment,  and  the  one  solitary  mourner  be- 
hind it ;  while  the  cheap  bier  that  came  after  it  was  followed 


COUSIN  PONS  a7S 

by  an  immense  crowd.  Happily,  Schmucke  was  so  bewil- 
dered by  the  throng  of  idlers  and  the  rows  of  heads  in  the 
windows,  that  he  heard  no  remarks  and  only  saw  the  faces 
through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"Oh,  it  is  the  nutcracker!"  said  one,  "the  musician, 
you  know " 

"  Who   can  the  pall-bearers  be  ?  " 

"  Pooh  \  play-actors." 

*'  I  say,  just  look  at  poor  old  Cibot's  funeral.  There  is 
one  worker  the  less.  What  a  man!  he  could  never  get 
enough  work ! " 

"  He  never  went  out." 

"He  never  kept  Saint  Monday." 

"  How  fond  he  was  of  his  wife !  " 

"  Ah !  There  is  an  unhappy  woman !  " 

Remonencq  walked  behind  his  victim's  coffin.  People  con- 
doled with  him  on  the  loss  of  his  neighbor. 

The  two  funerals  reached  the  church.  Cantinet  and  the 
doorkeeper  saw  that  no  beggars  troubled  Schmucke.  Ville- 
mot  had  given  his  word  that  Pons's  heir  should  be  left  in 
peace;  he  watched  over  his  client,  and  gave  the  requisite 
sums ;  and  Cibot's  humble  bier,  escorted  by  sixty  or  eighty 
persons,  drew  all  the  crowd  after  it  to  the  cemetery.  At 
the  church  door  Pons's  funeral  procession  mustered  four 
mourning-coaches,  one  for  the  priest  and  three  for  the  re- 
lations ;  but  one  only  was  required,  for  the  representative 
of  the  firm  of  Sonet  departed  during  Mass  to  give  notice  to 
liis  principal  that  the  funeral  was  on  the  way,  so  that  the 
design  for  the  monument  might  be  ready  for  the  survivor 
at  the  gates  of  the  cemetery.  A  single  coach  sufficed  for 
Fraisier,  Villemot,  Schmucke,  and  Topinard ;  but  the  re- 
maining two,  instead  of  returning  to  the  undertaker,  followed 
in  the  procession  to  Pere-Lachaise — a  useless  procession,  not 
unfrequently  seen ;  there  are  always  too  many  coaches  when 
the  dead  are  unknown  beyond  their  own  circle  and  there  is 
no  crowd  at  the  funeral.  Dear,  indeed,  the  dead  must  have 
been  in  their  lifetime  if  relative  or  friend  will  go  with  them 
so  far  as  the  cemetery  in  this  Paris,  where  everyone  would 
fain  have  twenty-five  hours  iu  the  day.     But  with  the  coach- 


^74.  COUSIN  PONS 

men  it  is  different ;  they  lose  their  tips  if  they  do  not  make 
the  journey;  so,  empty  or  full,  the  mourning-coaches  go  to 
church  and  cemetery  and  return  to  the  house  for  gratuities. 
A  death  is  a  sort  of  drinking-fountain  for  an  unimagined 
crowd  of  thirsty  mortals.  The  attendants  at  the  church, 
the  poor,  the  undertaker's  men,  the  drivers  and  sextons,  are 
creatures  like  sponges  that  dip  into  a  hearse  and  come  out 
again  saturated. 

From  the  church  door,  where  he  was  beset  with  a  swarm 
of  beggars  (promptly  dispersed  by  the  beadle),  to  Pere- 
Lachaise,  poor  Schmucke  went  as  criminals  went  in  old  times 
from  the  Palais  de  Justice  to  the  Place  de  Greve.  It  was 
his  own  funeral  that  he  followed,  clinging  to  Topinard's 
hand,  to  the  one  living  creature  besides  himself  who  felt  a 
pang  of  real  regret  for  Pons's  death. 

As  for  Topinard,  greatly  touched  by  the  honor  of  the 
request  to  act  as  pall-bearer,  content  to  drive  in  a  carriage, 
the  possessor  of  a  new  pair  of  gloves, — it  began  to  dawn 
upon  him  that  this  was  to  be  one  of  the  great  days  of  his  life. 
Schmucke  was  driven  passively  along  the  road,  as  some 
unlucky  calf  is  driven  in  a  butcher's  cart  to  the  slaughter- 
house. Fraisier  and  Villemot  sat  with  their  backs  to  the 
horses.  Now,  as  those  know  whose  sad  fortune  it  has  been 
to  accompany  many  of  their  friends  to  their  last  resting- 
place,  all  hypocrisy  breaks  down  in  the  coach  during  the 
journey  (often  a  very  long  one)  from  the  church  to  the 
eastern  cemetery,  to  that  one  of  the  burying-grounds  of 
Paris  in  Avhich  all  vanities,  all  kinds  of  display,  are  met,  so 
rich  is  it  in  sumptuous  monuments.  On  these  occasions  those 
who  feel  least  begin  to  talk  soonest,  and  in  the  end  the  sad- 
dest listen,  and  their  thoughts  are  diverted. 

"  M.  le  President  had  already  started  for  the  Court," 
Fraisier  told  Villemot,  "  and  I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
tear  him  away  from  business ;  he  would  have  come  too  late 
in  any  case.  He  is  the  next-of-kin ;  but  as  he  has  been 
disinherited  and  M.  Schmucke  gets  everything,  I  thought 
that  if  his  legal  representative  were  present  it  would  be 
enough." 

Topinard  lent  an  ear  to  this. 


COUSIN  PONS  275 

"  Who  was  the  queer  customer  that  took  the  fourth 
comer?  "  continued  Fraisier. 

"  He  is  an  agent  for  a  firm  of  monumental  stone-masons. 
He  would  Hke  an  order  for  a  tomb,  on  which  he  proposes 
to  put  three  sculptured  marble  figures — Music,  Painting,  and 
Sculpture  shedding  tears  over  the  deceased." 

"  It  is  an  idea,"  said  Fraisier ;  "  the  old  gentleman  cer- 
tainly deserved  that  much ;  but  the  monument  would  cost 
seven  or  eight  hundred  francs." 

"Oh!  quite  that!" 

"  If  M.  Schmucke  gives  the  order,  it  cannot  affect  the 
estate.  You  might  eat  up  a  whole  property  with  such  ex- 
penses." 

"  There  would  be  a  lawsuit,  but  you  would  gain  it " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Fraisier,  "  then  it  will  be  his  affair. — ■ 
It  would  be  a  nice  practical  joke  to  play  upon  the  monument- 
makers,"  Fraisier  added  in  Villemot's  ear ;  "  for  if  the  will 
is  upset  (and  I  can  answer  for  that),  or  if  there  is  no  Avill 
at  all,  who  would  pay  them.''  " 

Villemot  grinned  like  a  monkey,  and  the  pair  began  to 
talk  confidentially,  lowering  their  voices ;  but  the  man  from 
the  theater,  with  his  wits  and  senses  sharpened  in  the  world 
behind  the  scenes,  could  guess  at  the  nature  of  their  dis- 
course; in  spite  of  the  rumbling  of  the  carriage  and  other 
hindrances,  he  began  to  understand  that  these  representatives 
of  justice  were  scheming  to  plunge  poor  Schmucke  into 
difficulties ;  and  when  at  last  he  heard  the  ominous  word 
"  Clichy,"  ^  the  honest  and  loyal  servitor  of  the  stage  made 
up  his  mind  to  watch  over  Pons's  friend. 

At  the  cemetery,  where  three  square  yards  of  ground  had 
been  purchased  through  the  good  offices  of  the  firm  of 
Sonet  (Villemot  having  announced  Schmucke's  intention  of 
erecting  a  magnificent  monument),  the  master  of  the  cere- 
monies led  Schmucke  through  a  curious  crowd  to  the  grave 
into  which  Pons's  coffin  was  about  to  be  lowered;  but  here, 
at  the  sight  of  the  square  hole,  the  four  men  waiting  with 
ropes  to  lower  the  bier,  and  the  clergy  saying  the  last  prayer 

^The  old  debtors'  prison  in  the  Rue  de  Clichy. 


g76  COUSIN  PONS 

for  the  dead  at  the  grave-sido,  something  clutched  tightly 
at  the  German's  heart.     He  fainted  away. 

Sonet's  agent  and  M.  Sonet  himself  came  to  help  Topinard 
to  carry  poor  Schmucke  into  the  marble-works  hard  by, 
where  Mme.  Sonet  and  Mme.  Vitelot  (Sonet's  partner's 
wife)  were  eagerly  prodigal  of  efforts  to  revive  him.  Topi- 
nard stayed.  He  had  seen  Fraisier  in  conversation  with 
Sonet's  agent,  and  Fraisier,  in  his  opinion,  had  gallows-bird 
written  on  his  face. 

An  hour  later,  towards  half-past  two  o'clock,  the  poor, 
innocent  German  came  to  himself.  Schmucke  thought  that 
he  had  been  dreaming  for  the  past  two  days ;  if  he  could 
only  wake,  he  should  find  Pons  still  alive.  So  many  wet 
towels  had  been  laid  on  his  forehead,  he  had  been  made  to 
■inhale  salts  and  vinegar  to  such  an  extent,  that  he  opened 
his  eyes  at  last.  Mme.  Sonet  made  him  take  some  meat- 
soup,  for  they  had  put  the  pot  on  the  fire  at  the  marble- 
works. 

"  Our  clients  do  not  often  take  things  to  heart  like  this ; 
still,  it  happens  once  in  a  year  or  two " 

At  last  Schmucke  talked  of  returning  to  the  Rue  de 
Normandie,  and  at  this  Sonet  began  at  once. 

"  Here  is  the  design,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  Vitelot  drew  it 
expressly  for  you,  and  sat  up  last  night  to  do  it.  .  .  . 
And  he  has  been  happily  inspired ;  it  will  look  fine " 

"  One  of  the  finest  in  Pere-Lachaise !  "  said  little  Mme. 
Sonet.  "  But  you  really  ought  to  honor  the  memory  of  a 
friend  who  left  you  all  his  fortune." 

The  design,  supposed  to  have  been  drawn  on  purpose, 
had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  been  prepared  for  de  Marsay,  the 
famous  cabinet  Minister.  His  widow,  however,  had  given 
the  commission  to  Stidmann ;  people  were  disgusted  with  the 
tawdriness  of  the  project,  and  it  was  refused.  The  three 
figures  at  that  period  represented  the  Three  Days  of  July 
which  brought  the  eminent  Minister  to  power.  Subsequently, 
Sonet  and  Vitelot  had  turned  the  Three  Glorious  Days — "  les 
trois  glorieuses  " — into  the  Army,  Finance,  and  the  Family', 
and  sent  in  the  design  for  the  sepulcher  of  the  late  lamented 
Charles  Keller;  and  here  again  Stidmann  took  the  commis- 


COUSIN  PONS  27T 

sion.  In  the  eleven  years  that  followed,  the  sketch  had  been 
modified  to  suit  all  kinds  of  requirements,  and  now  in  Vitelot's 
fresh  tracing  they  reappeared  as  Music,  Sculpture,  and 
Painting. 

"  It  is  a  mere  trifle  when  you  think  of  the  details  and 
cost  of  setting  it  up ;  for  it  will  take  six  months,"  said 
Vitelot.  "  Here  is  the  estimate  and  the  order-form — seven 
thousand  francs,  sketch  in  plaster  not  included." 

"  If  M.  Schmucke  would  like  marble,"  put  in  Sonet 
(marble  being  his  special  department),  "  it  would  cost  twelve 
thousand  francs,  and  Monsieur  would  immortalize  himself 
as  well  as  his  friend." 

Topinard  turned  to  Vitelot. 

"  I  have  just  heard  that  they  are  going  to  dispute  the 
will,"  he  whispered,  "  and  the  relatives  are  likely  to  come 
by  their  property.  Go  and  speak  to  M.  Camusot,  for  this 
poor,  harmless  creature  has  not  a  farthing." 

"  This  is  the  kind  of  customer  that  you  always  bring  us," 
said  Mme.  Vitelot,  beginning  a  quarrel  with  the  agent. 

Topinard  led  Schmucke  away,  and  they  returned  home 
on  foot  to  the  Rue  de  Normandie,  for  the  mourning-coaches 
had  been  sent  back. 

"  Do  not  leaf  me,"  Schmucke  said,  when  Topinard  had 
seen  him  safe  into  Mme.  Sauvage's  hands,  and  wanted  to  go. 

"  It  is  four  o'clock,  dear  M.  Schmucke.  I  must  go  home 
to  dinner.  My  wife  is  a  box-opener — she  will  not  know 
what  has  become  of  me.  The  theater  opens  at  a  quarter  to 
six,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know  .  .  .  but  remember  dat  I  am  alone 
in  die  earth,  dat  I  haf  no  friend.  You  dat  haf  shed  a  tear 
for  Bons,  enliden  me ;  I  am  in  teep  tarkness,  und  Bons 
said  dat  I  vas  in  der  midst  of  shcoundrels." 

"I  have  seen  that  plainly  already;  I  have  just  prevented 
them  from  sending  you  to  Clichy." 

"  Gligy!  "  repeated  Schmucke ;  "  I  do  not  understand." 

"  Poor  man !  Well,  never  mind,  I  will  come  to  you. 
Good-by." 

"  Goot-by ;  komm  again  soon,"  said  Schmucke,  dropping 
half-dead  with  weariness. 


278  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Good-bj,  Mosieu,"  said  Mme.  Sauvage,  and  there  was 
something  in  her  tone  that  struck  Topinard. 

"  Oh,  come,  what  is  the  matter  now?  "  he  asked  banter- 
inglj.  "  You  are  attitudinizing  like  a  traitor  in  a  melo- 
drama." 

"Traitor  yourself!  Why  have  you  come  meddling  here? 
Do  you  want  to  have  a  hand  in  the  master's  affairs,  and 
swindle  him,  eh?  " 

"  Swindle  him !  .  .  .  Your  very  humble  servant ! " 
Topinard  answered  with  supreme  disdain.  "  I  am  only  a 
poor  super  at  a  theater,  but  I  am  something  of  an  artist, 
and  you  may  as  well  know  that  I  never  asked  anything  of 
anybody  yet!  Who  asked  anything  of  you?  Who  owes 
you  anything?  eh,  old  lady!" 

"  You  are  employed  at  a  theater,  and  your  name  is ?  " 

"  Topinard,  at  your  service." 

"  Kind  regards  to  all  at  home,"  said  La  Sauvage,  "  and 
my  compliments  to  your  missus,  if  you  are  married,  mister. 
That  was  all  I  wanted  to  know." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  dear?"  asked  Mme.  Cantinet-, 
coming  out. 

"  This  child — stop  here  and  look  after  the  dinner  while 
I  run  round  to  speak  to  Monsieur." 

"  He  is  down  below,  talking  with  poor  Mme.  Cibot,  that 
is  crying  her  eyes  out,"  said  Mme.  Cantinet. 

La  Sauvage  dashed  down  in  such  headlong  haste  that  the 
stairs  trembled  beneath  her  tread. 

"  Monsieur ! "  she  called,  and  drew  him  aside  a  few  paces 
to  point  out  Topinard. 

Topinard  was  just  going  away,  proud  at  heart  to  have 
made  some  return  already  to  the  man  who  had  done  him 
so  many  a  kindness.  He  had  saved  Pons's  friend  from  a 
trap,  by  a  stratagem  from  that  world  behind  the  scenes 
in  which  everyone  has  more  or  less  ready  wit.  And  within 
himself  he  vowed  to  protect  a  musician  in  his  orchestra  from 
future  snares  set  for  his  simple  sincerity. 

"  Do  you  see  that  little  wretch?  "  said  La  Sauvage.  "  He 
is  a  kind  of  honest  man  that  has  a  mind  to  poke  his  nose 
into  M.  Schmucke's  affairs." 


COUSIN  PONS  279 

"  Who  Is  he?  "  asked  Fraisier. 

"  Oh !  he  is  a  nobody." 

"  In  business  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  nobody." 

•'  Oh,  he  is  employed  at  the  theater,"  said  she ;  "  his  namt 
is  Topinard." 

"  Good,  Mme.  Sauvage !  Go  on  like  this,  and  you  shall 
have  your  tobacconist's  shop." 

And  Fraisier  resumed  his  conversation  with  Mme.   Cibot. 

"  So  I  say,  my  dear  client,  that  you  have  not  played 
openly  and  above-board  with  me,  and  that  one  is  not  bound 
in  any  way  to  a  partner  who  cheats." 

"And  how  have  I  cheated  you.'*"  asked  La  Cibot,  hands 
on  hips.  "  Do  you  think  that  you  will  frighten  me  with 
your  sour  looks  and  your  frosty  airs?  You  look  about  for 
bad  reasons  for  breaking  your  promises,  and  you  call  your- 
self an  honest  man!  Do  you  know  what  you  are?  You  are 
a  blackguard!  Yes!  yes!  scratch  your  arm;  but  just 
pocket  that " 

"  No  words,  and  keep  your  temper,  dearie.  Listen  to  me. 
You  have  been  feathering  your  nest.  ...  I  found  this 
catalogue  this  morning  while  we  were  getting  ready  for  the- 
funeral ;  it  is  all  in  M.  Pons's  handwriting,  and  made  out 
in  duplicate.     And  as  it  chanced,  my  eyes  fell  on  this " 

And  opening  the  catalogue,  he  read — 

*'  No.  7.  Magnificent  portrait  painted  on  marble,  by  Se- 
bastian del  Piombo,  in  154-6.  Sold  by  a  family  who  had  it 
removed  from  Terni  cathedral.  The  picture,  which  repre- 
sents  a  Knight-Templar  kneeling  vn  prayer,  used  to  hang 
above  a  tomb  of  the  Rossi  family  with  a  companion  portrait 
of  a  Bishop,  afterwards  purchased  by  an  Englishman.  The 
portrait  might  be  attributed  to  Rafael,  but  for  the  date. 
This  example  is,  to  my  mind,  superior  to  the  portrait  of 
Baccio  Bandinelli  in  the  Musee;  the  latter  is  a  little  hardy 
while  the  Templar,  being  painted  upon  '  lavagna,*  or  slate, 
has  preserved  its  freshness  of  coloring.^' 

"  When  I  come  to  look  for  No.  7,"  continued  Fraisier, 
"  I  find  a  portrait  of  a  lady,  signed  '  Chardin,'  without  a 
number  on  it !  I  went  through  the  pictures  with  the  cata- 
logue while  the  master  of  the  ceremonies  was  making  up  the 


«80  COUSIN  PONS 

number  of  pall-bearers,  and  found  that  eight  of  those  indi- 
cated as  works  of  capital  importance  by  M.  Pons  had  dis- 
appeared, and  eight  paintings  of  no  special  merit,  and  with- 
out numbers,  were  there  instead.  .  .  .  And  finally,  one 
was  missing  altogether,  a  little  panel-painting  by  Metzu, 
described  in  the  catalogue  as  a  masterpiece." 

"And  was  /  in  charge  of  the  pictures?"  demanded  La 
Cibot. 

"  No ;  but  you  were  in  a  position  of  trust.  You  were 
M.  Pons's  housekeeper,  you  looked  after  his  affairs,  and  he 
has  been  robbed " 

"Robbed!  Let  me  tell  you  this,  sir:  M.  Schmucke  sold 
the  pictures,  by  M.  Pons's  orders,  to  meet  expenses." 

"  And  to  whom?  " 

"  To  Messrs.  Elie  Magus  and  Remonencq." 

"  For  how  much  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  do  not  remember." 

"  Look  here,  my  dear  Madame ;  you  have  been  feathering 
your  nest,  and  very  snugly.  I  shall  keep  an  eye  upon  you ; 
I  have  you  safe.  Help  me,  I  will  say  nothing !  In  any  case 
you  know  that  since  you  judged  it  expedient  to  plunder 
M.  le  President  Camusot,  you  ought  not  to  expect  anything 
from  him." 

"  I  was  sure  that  this  would  all  end  in  smoke,  for 
me,"  said  La  Cibot,  mollified  by  the  words  "  I  will  say 
nothing," 

Remonencq  chimed  in  at  this  point. 

•**  Here  are  you  finding  fault  with  Mme.  Cibot ;  that  is  not 
right !  "  he  said.  "  The  pictures  were  sold  by  private  treaty 
between  M.  Pons,  M.  Magus,  and  me.  We  waited  for  three 
days  before  we  came  to  terms  with  the  deceased ;  he  slept  on 
his  pictures.  We  took  receipts  in  proper  form ;  and  if  we 
gave  Mme.  Cibot  a  few  forty-franc  pieces,  it  is  the  custom 
■of  the  trade — ^we  always  do  so  in  private  houses  when  we 
conclude  a  bargain.  Ah !  my  dear  sir,  if  you  think  to  cheat  a 
defenseless  woman,  you  will  not  make  a  good  bargain!  Do 
you  understand,  master  lawyer  ?  — M.  Magus  rules  the 
market,  and  if  you  do  not  come  down  off  the  high  horse, 
if  you  do  not  keep  your  word  to  Mme.  Cibot,  I  shall  wait 


COUSIN  PONS  281 

till  the  collection  is  sold,  and  you  shall  see  what  you  will 
lose  if  you  have  M.  Magus  and  me  against  you;  we  can  get 
the  dealers  in  a  ring.  Instead  of  realizing  seven  or  eight 
hundred  thousand  francs,  you  will  not  so  much  as  make  two 
hundred  thousand." 

"  Good,  good,  we  shall  see.  We  are  not  going  to  sell ; 
or  if  we  do,  it  will  be  in  London." 

"  We  know  London,"  said  Remonencq.  "  M.  Magus  is  as 
powerful  there  as  at  Paris." 

"  Good-day,  Madame ;  I  shall  sift  these  matters  to  the 
bottom,"  said  Fraisier — "  unless  you  continue  to  do  as  I 
tell  you,"  he  added. 

"  You  little  pickpocket !  " 

"Take  care!  I  shall  be  a  justice  of  the  peace  before 
long."  And  with  threats  understood  to  the  full  upon  either 
side,  they  separated. 

"  Thank  you,  Remonencq ! "  said  La  Cibot ;  "  it  is  very 
pleasant  to  a  poor  widow  to  find  a  champion." 

Towards  ten  o'clock  that  evening,  Gaudissart  sent  for 
Topinard.  The  manager  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  in  a  Napoleonic  attitude — a  trick  which  he  had  learned 
since  he  began  to  command  his  army  of  actors,  dancers, 
"figurants,  musicians,  and  stage-carpenters.  He  grasped 
his  left-hand  brace  with  his  right  hand,  always  thrust  into 
his  waistcoat ;  his  head  was  flung  far  back,  his  eyes  gazed 
out  into  space. 

"  Ah !  I  say,  Topinard,  have  you  independent  means  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Are  you  on  the  lookout  to  better  yourself  somewhere 
else.?  " 

"  No,  sir "  said  Topinard,  with  a  ghastly  countenance. 

"  Why,  hang  it  all,  your  wife  takes  the  first  row  of  boxes 
out  of  respect  to  my  predecessor,  who  came  to  grief;  I 
gave  you  the  job  of  cleaning  the  lamps  in  the  wings  in  the 
daytime,  and  you  put  out  the  scores.  And  that  is  not  all, 
either.  You  get  twenty  sous  for  acting  monsters  and  man- 
aging devils  when  a  hell  is  required.  There  is  not  a  super 
that  does  not  covet  your  post,  and  there  are  those  that  are 


282  COUSIN  PONS 

jealous  of  you,  my  friend;  you  have  enemies  in  the 
theater." 

"  Enemies !  "   repeated  Topinard. 

"  And  you  have  three  children ;  the  oldest  takes  children's 
parts  at  fifty  centimes " 

"Sir !" 

"  Allow  me  to  speak "  thundered  Gaudissart.     "  And 

in  your  position,  you  want  to  leave " 

"Sir !" 

"  You  want  to  meddle  in  other  people's  business,  and  put 
your  finger  into  a  will  case. — Why,  you  wretched  man,  you 
would  be  crushed  like  an  egg-shell!  My  patron  is  his  Ex- 
cellency, Monseigneur  le  Comte  Popinot,  a  clever  man  and  a 
man  of  high  character,  whom  the  King  in  his  wisdom  has 
summoned  back  to  the  privy  council.  This  statesman,  this 
great  politician,  has  married  his  eldest  son  to  a  daughter 
of  M.  le  President  de  Marville,  one  of  the  foremost  men 
among  the  high  courts  of  justice;  one  of  the  leading  lights 
of  the  law-courts.  Do  you  know  the  law-courts.'*  Very 
good.  Well,  he  is  cousin  and  heir  to  M.  Pons,  to  our  old 
conductor,  whose  funeral  you  attended  this  morning.  I  do 
not  blame  you  for  going  to  pay  the  last  respects  to  him, 
poor  man.  .  .  .  But  if  you  meddle  in  M.  Schmucke's 
affairs,  you  will  lose  your  place.  I  wish  very  well  to  M. 
Schmucke,  but  he  is  in  a  delicate  position  with  regard  to  the 
heirs — and  as  the  German  is  almost  nothing  to  me,  and  the 
President  and  Count  Popinot  are  a  great  deal,  I  recommend 
you  to  leave  the  worthy  German  to  get  out  of  his  difficulties 
by  himself.  There  is  a  special  Providence  that  watches  over 
Germans,  and  the  part  of  deputy  guardian-angel  would  not 
suit  you  at  all.  Do  you  see?  Stay  as  you  are — you  cannot 
do  better." 

"  Very  good,  M.  le  Directeur,"  said  Topinard,  much 
distressed.  And  in  this  way  Schmucke  lost  the  protector 
sent  to  him  by  fate,  the  one  creature  that  shed  a  tear  for 
Pons,  the  poor  super  for  whose  return  he  looked  on  the 
morrow. 

Next  morning  poor  Schmucke  awoke  to  a  sense  of  his 
great  and  heavy  loss.     He  looked  roimd  the  empty  rooms. 


COUSIN  PONS  283 

Yesterday  and  the  day  before  yesterday  the  preparations 
for  the  funeral  had  made  a  stir  and  bustle  which  distracted 
his  eyes ;  but  the  silence  which  follows  the  day,  when  the 
friend,  father,  son,  or  loved  wife  has  been  laid  in  the  grave — 
the  dull,  cold  silence  of  the  morrow  is  terrible,  is  glacial. 
Some  irresistible  force  drew  him  to  Pons's  chamber,  but  the 
sight  of  it  was  more  than  the  poor  man  could  bear ;  he  shrank 
away  and  sat  down  in  the  dining-room,  where  Mme.  Sauvage 
was  busy  making  breakfast  ready. 

Schmucke  drew  his  chair  to  the  table,  but  he  could  eat 
nothing.  A  sudden,  somewhat  sharp  ringing  of  the  door- 
bell rang  through  the  house,  and  Mme.  Cantinet  and  Mme. 
Sauvage  allowed  three  black-coated  personages  to  pass. 
First  came  Vitel,  the  justice  of  the  peace,  with  his  highly 
respectable  clerk;  the  third  was  Fraisier,  neither  sweeter 
nor  milder  for  the  disappointing  discovery  of  a  valid  will 
canceling  the  formidable  instrument  so  audaciously  stolen 
by  him. 

"  We  have  come  to  affix  seals  on  the  property,"  the  justice 
of  the  peace  said  gently,  addressing  Schmucke.  But  the 
remark  was  Greek  to  Schmucke ;  he  gazed  in  dismay  at  his 
three  visitors. 

"  We  have  come  at  the  request  of  M.  Fraisier,  legal  repre- 
sentative of  M.  Camusot  de  Marville,  heir  of  the  late 
Pons "  added  the  clerk. 

"  The  collection  is  here  in  this  great  room,  and  in  the 
bedroom  of  the  deceased,"  remarked  Fraisier. 

"  Very  well,  let  us  go  into  the  next  room. — Pardon  us, 
sir;  do  not  let  us  interfere  with  your  breakfast." 

The  invasion  struck  an  icy  chill  of  terror  into  poor 
Schmucke.  Fraisier's  venomous  glances  seemed  to  possess 
some  magnetic  influence  over  his  victims,  like  the  power  of 
a  spider  over  a  fly. 

"  M.  Schmucke  understood  how  to  turn  a  will,  made  in 
the  presence  of  a  notary,  to  his  own  advantage,"  he  said, 
"  and  he  surely  must  have  expected  some  opposition  from 
the  family.  A  family  does  not  allow  itself  to  be  plundered 
by  a  stranger  without  some  protest;  and  we  shall  see,  sir, 
which  carries  the  day — fraud  and  corruption  or  the  rightful 


284.  COUSIN  PONS 

heirs.  .  .  .  We  have  a  right  as  next-of-kin  to  affix 
seals,  and  seals  shall  be  affixed.  I  mean  to  see  that  the  pre- 
caution is  taken  with  the  utmost  strictness." 

"  Ach,  mein  Gott!  how  haf  I  offended  against  Hefn.'' " 
cried  the  innocent  Schmucke. 

"  There  is  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  jou  in  the  house," 
said  La  Sauvage.  "  While  you  were  asleep,  a  little  whipper- 
snapper  in  a  black  suit  came  here,  a  puppy  that  said  he  was 
M.  Hannequin's  head-clerk,  and  must  see  you  at  all  costs ; 
but  as  you  were  asleep  and  tired  out  with  the  funeral  yester- 
day, I  told  him  that  M.  Villemot,  Tabareau's  head-clerk,  was 
acting  for  you,  and  if  it  was  a  matter  of  business,  I  said,  he 
might  speak  to  M.  Villemot.  '  Ah,  so  much  the  better ! '  the 
youngster  said.  '  I  shall  come  to  an  understanding  with 
him.  We  will  deposit  the  will  at  the  Tribunal,  after  showing 
it  to  the  President.'  So  at  that,  I  told  him  to  ask  M. 
Villemot  to  come  here  as  soon  as  he  could. — Be  easy,  my 
dear  sir,  there  are  those  that  will  take  care  of  you.  They 
shall  not  shear  the  fleece  off  your  back.  You  will  have  some- 
one that  has  beak  and  claws.  M.  Villemot  will  give  them  a 
piece  of  his  mind.  I  have  put  myself  in  a  passion  once  al- 
ready with  that  abominable  hussy,  La  Cibot,  a  porter's  wife 
that  sets  up  to  judge  her  lodgers,  forsooth,  and  insists  that 
you  have  filched  the  money  from  the  heirs ;  you  locked  M. 
Pons  up,  she  says,  and  worked  upon  him  till  he  was  stark, 
staring  mad.  She  got  as  good  as  she  gave,  though,  the 
wretched  woman.  '  You  are  a  thief  and  a  bad  lot,'  I  told 
her ;  '  you  will  get  into  the  police-courts  for  all  the  things 
that  you  have  stolen  from  the  gentlemen,'  and  she  shut 
up." 

The  clerk  came  out  to  speak  to  Schmucke. 

*'  Would  you  wish  to  be  present,  sir,  when  the  seals  are 
aJ0Bxed  in  the  next  room  ?  " 

"  Go  on,  go  on,"  said  Schmucke ;  "  I  shall  pe  allowed  to  die 
in  beace,  I  bresume.''  " 

"  Oh,  under  any  circumstances  a  man  has  a  right  to  die," 
the  clerk  answered,  laughing ;  "  most  of  our  business  relates 
to  wills.  But,  in  my  experience,  the  universal  legatee  very 
seldom  follows  the  testator  to  the  tomb." 


COUSIN  PONS  885 

*'  I  am  going,"  said  Schmucke.  Blow  after  blow  had 
given  him  an  intolerable  pain  at  the  heart. 

"  Oh !  here  comes  M.  Villemot !  "  exclaimed  La  Sauvage. 

"  Mennesir  Fillemod,"  said  poor  Schmucke,  "  rebresent 
me." 

"  I  hurried  here  at  once,"  said  Villemot.  "  I  have  come 
to  tell  you  that  the  will  is  completely  in  order;  it  will  cer- 
tainly be  confirmed  by  the  court,  and  you  will  be  put  in 
possession.     You  will  have  a  fine  fortune." 

"  If  Ein  fein  vordune.'*  "  cried  Schmucke  despairingly. 
That  he  of  all  men  should  be  suspected  of  caring  for  the 
money ! 

"  And  meantime,  what  is  the  justice  of  the  peace  doing  here 
with  his  wax  candles  and  his  bits  of  tape.? "  asked  La 
Sauvage. 

"  Oh,  he  is  affixing  seals.  .  .  .  Come,  M.  Schmucke, 
you  have  a  right  to  be  present." 

"  No — go  in  yourself." 

"  But  where  is  the  use  of  the  seals  if  M.  Schmucke  is  in 
his  own  house  and  everything  belongs  to  him.''  "  asked  La 
Sauvage,  doing  justice  in  feminine  fashion,  and  interpreting 
the  Code  according  to  her  fancy,  like  one  and  all  of  her  sex. 

"  M.  Schmucke  is  not  in  possession,  Madame ;  he  is  in 
M.  Pons's  house.  Everything  will  be  his,  no  doubt ;  but 
the  legatee  cannot  take  possession  without  an  authorization 
— an  order  from  the  Tribunal.  And  if  the  next-of-kin  set 
aside  by  the  testator  should  dispute  the  order,  a  lawsuit 
is  the  result.  And  as  nobody  knows  what  may  happen,  every- 
thing is  sealed  up,  and  the  notaries  representing  either  side 
proceed  to  draw  up  an  inventory  during  the  delay  prescribed 
by  the  law.     .     .     .     And  there  you  are !  " 

Schmucke,  hearing  such  talk  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
was  completely  bewildered  by  it ;  his  head  sank  down  upon 
the  back  of  his  chair — he  could  not  support  it,  it  had  grown 
so  heavy. 

Villemot  meanwhile  went  off  to  chat  with  the  justice  of  the 
peace  and  his  clerk,  assisting  with  professional  coolness  to 
affix  the  seals — a  ceremony  which  always  involves  some 
buffoonery    and    plentiful    comments    on    the    objects    thus 


286  COUSIN  PONS 

secured,  unless  indeed  one  of  the  family  happens  to  be  pres- 
ent. At  length  the  party  sealed  up  the  chamber  and  re- 
turned to  the  dining-room,  whither  the  clerk  betook  himself. 
Schmucke  watched  the  mechanical  operation  which  consists 
in  setting  the  justice's  seal  at  either  end  of  a  bit  of  tape 
stretched  across  the  opening  of  a  folding  door ;  or,  in  the 
case  of  a  cupboard  or  ordinary  door,  from  edge  to  edge 
above  the  door-handle. 

"  Now  for  this  room,"  said  Fraisier,  pointing  to  Schmucke's 
bedroom,  which  opened  into  the  dining-room. 

"  But  that  is  M.  Schmucke's  own  room,"  remonstrated  La 
Sauvage,  springing  in  front  of  the  door. 

"  We  found  the  lease  among  the  papers,"  Fraisier  said 
ruthlessly ;  "  there  is  no  mention  of  M.  Schmucke  in  it ; 
it  is  taken  out  in  M.  Pons's  name  only.  The  whole  place, 
and  every  room  in  it,  is  a  part  of  the  estate.  And  besides  " 
— flinging  open  the  door — "  look  here,  M.  le  Juge  de  la 
Paix,  it  is  full  of  pictures." 

"  So  it  is,"  answered  the  justice  of  the  peace,  and  Fraisier 
thereupon  gained  his  point. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  gentlemen,"  said  Villemot.  "  Do  you  know 
that  you  are  turning  the  universal  legatee  out  of  doors,  and 
as  yet  his  right  has  not  been  called  in  question.''  " 

"  Yes,  it  has,"  said  Fraisier ;  "  we  are  opposing  the  trans- 
fer of  the  property." 

"  And  upon  what  grounds  ?  " 

"  You  shall  know  that  by  and  by,  my  boy,"  Fraisier  re- 
plied banteringly.  "  At  this  moment,  if  the  legatee  with- 
draws everything  that  he  declares  to  be  his,  we  shall  raise 
no  objections,  but  the  room  itself  will  be  sealed.  And  M. 
Schmucke  may  lodge  where  he  pleases." 

"  No,"  said  Villemot ;  "  M.  Schmucke  is  going  to  stay  in 
his   room." 

"And  how.?" 

"  I  shall  demand  an  immediate  special  inquiry,"  continued 
Villemot,  "  and  prove  that  we  pay  half  the  rent.  You  shall 
not  turn  us  out.  Take  away  the  pictures,  decide  on  the 
ownership  of  the  various  articles,  but  here  my  client  stops — 
*  my  boy.'  " 


COUSIN  PONS  287 

"I  shall  go  out!"  the  old  musician  suddenly  said.  He 
had  recovered  energy  during  the  odious  dispute. 

"  You  had  better,"  said  Fraisier.  "  Your  course  will  save 
expense  to  you,  for  your  contention  would  not  be  made  good. 
The  lease  is  evidence " 

"  The  lease  I  the  lease ! "  cried  Villemot,  "  it  is  a  question 
of  good  faith " 

"  That  could  only  be  proved  as  in  a  criminal  case,  by 
calling  witnesses. — Do  you  mean  to  plunge  into  experts' 
fees  and  verifications,  and  orders  to  show  cause  why  judgment 
should  not  be  given,  and  law  proceedings  generally?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Schmucke  in  dismay.  "  I  shall  turn  out ; 
I  am  used  to  it " 

In  practice  Schmucke  was  a  philosopher,  an  unconscious 
cynic,  so  greatly  had  he  simplified  his  life.  Two  pairs  of 
shoes,  a  pair  of  boots,  a  couple  of  suits  of  clothes,  a  dozen 
shirts,  a  dozen  bandanna  handkerchiefs,  four  waistcoats,  a 
superb  pipe  given  to  him  by  Pons,  with  an  embroidered 
tobacco-pouch — these  were  all  his  belongings.  Overwrought 
by  a  fever  of  indignation,  he  went  into  his  room  and  piled 
his  clothes  upon  a  chair. 

"  All  dese  are  mine,"  he  said,  with  simplicity  worthy  of 
Cincinnatus.      "  Der  biano  is  also  mine." 

Fraisier  turned  to  La  Sauvage.  "  Madame,  get  help," 
he  said ;  "  take  that  piano  out  and  put  it  on  the 
landing." 

"  You  are  too  rough  into  the  bargain,"  said  Villemot, 
addressing  Fraisier.  "  The  justice  of  the  peace  gives  orders 
here ;  he  is  supreme." 

"  There  are  valuables  in  the  room,"  put  in  the  clerk. 

"And  besides,"  added  the  justice  of  the  peace,  "  M. 
Schmucke  is  going  out  of  his  own  free  will." 

"  Did  anyone  ever  see  such  a  chent ! "  Villemot  cried  in- 
dignantly, turning  upon  Schmucke.  "  You  are  as  limp  as 
a  rag " 

"Vat  does  it  matter  vere  von  dies.?"  Schmucke  said  as 
he  went  out.  "  Dese  men  haf  tigers'  faces.  ...  I  shall 
send  sompody  to  vetch  mein  bits  of  dings." 

"Where  are  you  going,  sir?" 


g88  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Vere  it  shall  blease  Gott,"  returned  Pons's  universal 
legatee  with  supreme  indifference. 

"  Send  me  word,"  said  Villemot. 

Fraisier  turned  to  the  head-clerk.  "  Go  after  him,"  he 
whispered. 

Mme.  Cantinet  was  left  in  charge  with  a  provision  of  fifty 
francs  paid  out  of  the  money  that  they  found.  The  justice 
of  the  peace  looked  out ;  there  Schmucke  stood  in  the  court- 
yard, looking  up  at  the  windows  for  the  last  time. 

"  You  have  found  a  man  of  butter,"  remarked  the  justice. 

"  Yes,"  said  Fraisier,  "  yes.  The  thing  is  as  good  as  done. 
You  need  not  hesitate  to  marry  your  grand-daughter  to 
Poulain ;  he  will  be  head-surgeon  at  the  Quinze-Vingts."  ^ 

"  We  shall  see. — Good-day,  M.  Fraisier,"  said  the  justice 
of  the  peace  with  a  friendly  air. 

"  There  is  a  man  with  a  head  on  his  shoulders,"  remarked 
the  justice's  clerk.     "  The  dog  will  go  a  long  way." 

By  this  time  it  was  eleven  o'clock.  The  old  German  went 
like  an  automaton  down  the  road  along  which  Pons  and  he 
had  so  often  walked  together.  Wherever  he  went  he  saw 
Pons,  he  almost  thought  that  Pons  was  by  his  side ;  and 
so  he  reached  the  theater  just  as  his  friend  Topinard  was 
coming  out  of  it  after  a  morning  spent  in  cleaning  the  lamps 
and  meditating  on  the  manager's  tyranny. 

"  Oh,  shoost  der  ding  for  me ! "  cried  Schmucke,  stopping 
his  acquaintance.  "  Dopinart !  you  haf  a  lodging  someveres, 
eh?  " 

"Yes,   sir." 

"  A  home  off  your  own  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir. 

"  Are  you  vilHng  to  take  me  for  ein  poarder  ?  Oh !  I 
shall  bay  ver'  veil;  I  haf  nine  hundert  vrancs  of  inkomm, 
und — I  haf  not  ver'  long  to  lif.  ...  I  shall  gif  no 
drouble  vatefer.  ...  I  can  eat  onydings — I  only  vant 
to  shmoke  mein  bipe.  Und — you  are  der  only  von  dat  haf 
shed  a  tear  for  Bons,  mit  me ;  und  so,  I  lof  you." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad,  sir ;  but,  to  begin  with,  M.  Gaudis- 
sart  has  given  me  a  proper  wigging " 

*  The  asylum  founded  by  St.  Louis  for  three  hundred  blind  people. 


COUSIN  PONS  289 

"  Viggingf  " 

"  That  is  one  way  of  saying  that  he  combed  my  hair 
for  me." 

"  Combed  your  hair?  " 

"  He  gave  me  a  scolding  for  meddhng  in  your  affairs. 
So  we  must  be  very  careful  if  you  come  to  me.  But 
I  doubt  whether  you  will  stay  when  you  have  seen  the  place ; 
you  do  not  know  how  we  poor  devils  live." 

"  I  should  rader  der  boor  home  of  a  goot-hearted  mann 
dot  haf  mourned  Bons,  dan  der  Duileries  mit  men  dot  haf 
ein  tiger's  face.  ...  I  haf  chust  left  tigers  in  Bons's 
house;  dey  vill  eat  up  everydings " 

"  Come  with  me,  sir,  and  you  shall  see.  But — well,  any- 
how, there  is  a  garret.  Let  us  see  what  Mme.  Topinard 
says." 

Schmucke  followed  like  a  sheep,  while  Topinard  led  the 
way  into  one  of  the  squalid  districts  wliich  might  be  called 
the  cancers  of  Paris — a  spot  known  as  the  Cite  Bordin. 
It  is  a  slum  out  of  the  Rue  de  Bondy,  a  double  row  of  houses 
run  up  by  the  speculative  builder,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
huge  mass  of  the  Porte  Saint-Martin  theater.  The  pavement 
at  the  higher  end  lies  below  the  level  of  the  Rue  de  Bondy ; 
at  the  lower  it  falls  away  towards  the  Rue  des  Mathurins  du 
Temple.  Follow  its  course  and  you  find  that  it  terminates 
in  another  slum  running  at  right  angles  to  the  first — the  Cite 
Bordin  is,  in  fact,  a  T-shaped  blind  alley.  Its  two  streets 
thus  arranged  contain  some  thirty  houses,  six  or  seven  stories 
high ;  and  every  story,  and  every  room  in  every  story,  is 
a  workshop  and  a  warehouse  for  goods  of  every  sort  and 
description,  for  this  wart  upon  the  face  of  Paris  is  a  minia- 
ture Faubourg  Saint-Antoine.  Cabinet-work  and  brass-work, 
theatrical  costumes,  blown  glass,  painted  porcelain — all  the 
various  fancy  goods  known  as  Varticle  Paris  are  made  here. 
Dirty  and  productive  like  commerce,  always  full  of  traffic — 
foot-passengers,  vans,  and  drays — the  Cite  Bordin  is  an 
unsavory-looking  neighborhood,  with  a  seething  population 
in  keeping  with  the  squalid  surroundings.  It  is  a  not  unin- 
telligent artisan  population,  though  the  whole  power  of  the 
intellect  is  absorbed  by  the  day's  manual  labor.     Topinard, 


290  COUSIN  PONS 

like  every  other  inhabitant  of  the  Cite  Bordin,  lived  in  it 
for  the  sake  of  the  comparatively  low  rent,  the  cause  of  its 
existence  and  prosperity.  His  sixth-floor  lodging,  in  the 
second  house  to  the  left,  looked  out  upon  the  belt  of  green 
garden,  still  in  existence,  at  the  back  of  three  or  four  large 
mansions  in  the  Rue  de  Bondy. 

Topinard's  apartment  consisted  of  a  kitchen  and  two  bed- 
rooms. The  first  was  a  nursery  with  two  little  deal  bed- 
steads and  a  cradle  in  it,  the  second  was  the  bedroom,  and 
the  kitchen  did  duty  as  a  dining-room.  Above,  reached  by  a 
short  ladder,  kno^vn  among  builders  as  a  "  trap-ladder," 
there  was  a  kind  of  garret,  six  feet  high,  with  a  sash- 
window  let  into  the  roof.  This  room,  given  as  a  servant's 
bedroom,  raised  the  Topinards'  establishment  from  mere 
"  rooms  "  to  the  dignity  of  a  tenement,  and  the  rent  to  a 
corresponding  sum  of  four  hundred  francs.  An  arched 
lobby,  lighted  from  the  kitchen  by  a  small  round  window,  did 
duty  as  an  ante-chamber,  and  filled  the  space  between  the 
bedroom,  the  kitchen,  and  house  doors — three  doors  in  all. 
The  rooms  were  paved  with  bricks,  and  hung  with  a  hideous 
wall-paper  at  threepence  a  piece ;  the  chimneypieces  that 
adorned  them  were  of  the  kind  called  capucines — a  shelf  set 
on  a  couple  of  brackets  painted  to  resemble  wood.  Here  in 
these  three  rooms  dwelt  five  human  beings,  three  of  them 
children.  Anyone,  therefore,  can  imagine  how  the  walls 
were  covered  with  scores  and  scratches  so  far  as  an  infant 
arm  can  reach. 

Rich  people  can  scarcely  realize  the  extreme  simplicity 
of  a  poor  man's  kitchen.  A  Dutch  oven,  a  kettle,  a  gridiron, 
a  saucepan,  two  or  three  dumpy  cooking-pots,  and  a  frying- 
pan — that  was  all.  All  the  crockery  in  the  place,  white 
and  brown  earthenware  together,  was  not  worth  more  than 
twelve  francs.  Dinner  was  served  on  the  kitchen  table, 
which,  with  a  couple  of  chairs  and  a  couple  of  stools,  com- 
pleted the  furniture.  The  stock  of  fuel  was  kept  under  the 
stove  with  a  funnel-shaped  chimney,  and  in  a  corner  stood 
the  washtub  in  which  the  family  linen  lay,  often  steeping 
overnight  in  soapsuds.  The  nursery  ceiling  was  covered 
with  clotheslines,  the  walls  were  variegated  with  theatrical 


COUSIN  PONS  291 

placards  and  woodcuts  from  newspapers  or  advertisements. 
Evidently  the  eldest  boy,  the  owner  of  the  schoolbooks 
stacked  in  a  corner,  was  left  in  charge  while  his  parents  were 
absent  at  the  theater.  In  many  a  French  workingman's 
family,  so  soon  as  a  child  reaches  the  age  of  six  or  seven, 
it  plays  the  part  of  mother  to  younger  sisters  and  brothers. 

From  this  bare  outline,  it  may  be  imagined  that  the  Topi- 
nards,  to  use  the  hackneyed  formula,  were  "  poor  but  honest." 
Topinard  himself  was  verging  on  forty;  Mme.  Topinard, 
once  leader  of  a  chorus — mistress  too,  it  was  said,  of  Gaudis- 
sart's  predecessor — was  certainly  thirty  years  old.  Lolotte 
had  been  a  fine  woman  in  her  day ;  but  the  misfortunes  of 
the  previous  management  had  told  upon  her  to  such  an  extent, 
that  it  had  seemed  to  her  to  be  both  advisable  and  necessary 
to  contract  a  stage-marriage  with  Topinard.  She  did  not 
doubt  but  that,  as  soon  as  they  could  muster  the  sum  of  a 
hundred  and  fifty  francs,  her  Topinard  would  perform  his 
vows  agreeably  to  the  civil  law,  were  it  only  to  legitimize 
the  three  children,  whom  he  worshiped.  Meantime,  Mme. 
Topinard  sewed  for  the  theater  wardrobe  in  the  morning; 
and  with  prodigious  effort,  the  brave  couple  made  nine  hun- 
dred francs  per  annum  between  them. 

"  One  more  flight ! "  Topinard  had  twice  repeated  since 
they  reached  the  third  floor.  Schmucke,  engulfed  in  his 
sorrow,  did  not  so  much  as  know  whether  he  was  going  up 
or  coming  down. 

In  another  minute  Topinard  had  opened  the  door;  but 
before  he  appeared  in  his  white  workman's  blouse  Mme. 
Topinard's  voice  rang  from  the  kitchen — 

"  There,  there !  children,  be  quiet !  here  comes  papa !  " 

But  the  children,  no  doubt,  did  as  they  pleased  with  papa, 
for  the  oldest  member  of  the  little  family,  sitting  astride  a 
broomstick,  continued  to  command  a  charge  of  cavalry  (a 
reminiscence  of  the  Cirque-Olympique),  the  second  blew  a 
tin  trumpet,  while  the  third  did  its  best  to  keep  up  with  the 
main  body  of  the  army.  Their  mother  was  at  work  on 
a  theatrical  costume. 

"  Be  quiet !  or  I  shall  slap  you ! "  shouted  Topinard  in 
a  formidable  voice ;  then  in  an  aside  for  Schmucke's  benefit — 


292  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Always  have  to  say  that ! — Here,  little  one,"  he  continued, 
addressing  his  Lolotte,  "  this  is  M.  Schmucke,  poor  M.  Pons's 
friend.  He  does  not  know  where  to  go,  and  he  would  like 
to  live  with  us.  I  told  him  that  we  were  not  very  spick-and- 
span  up  here,  that  we  lived  on  the  sixth  floor,  and  had  only 
the  garret  to  offer  him ;  but  it  was  no  use,  he  would  come " 

Schmucke  had  taken  the  chair  which  the  woman  brought 
him,  and  the  children,  stricken  with  sudden  shyness,  had 
gathered  together  to  give  the  stranger  that  mute,  earnest, 
so  soon  finished  scrutiny  characteristic  of  childhood.  For 
a  child,  like  a  dog,  is  wont  to  judge  by  instinct  rather  than 
reason.  Sclimucke  looked  up ;  his  eyes  rested  on  that  charm- 
ing little  picture ;  he  saw  the  performer  on  the  tin  trumpet, 
a  little  five-year-old  maiden  ^vith  wonderful  golden  hair. 

"  She  looks  like  ein  liddle  German  girl,"  said  Schmucke, 
holding  out  his  arms  to  the  child. 

"  Monsieur  will  not  be  very  comfortable  here,"  said  Mme. 
Topinard.  "  I  would  propose  that  he  should  have  our  room, 
at  once,  but  I  am  obliged  to  have  the  cliildren  near  me." 

She  opened  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and  bade  Schmucke 
come  in.  Such  splendor  as  their  abode  possessed  was  all 
concentrated  here.  Blue  cotton  curtains  with  a  white  fringe 
hung  from  the  mahogany  bedstead  and  adorned  the  window ; 
the  chest  of  drawers,  bureau,  and  chairs,  though  all  made 
of  mahogany,  were  neatly  kept.  The  clock  and  candlesticks 
on  the  chimneypiece  were  evidently  the  gift  of  the  bankrupt 
manager,  whose  portrait,  a  truly  frightful  performance  of 
Pierre  Grassou's,  looked  down  upon  the  chest  of  drawers. 
The  children  tried  to  peep  in  at  the  forbidden  glories. 

"  Monsieur  might  be  comfortable  in  here,"  said  their 
mother. 

"  No,  no,"  Schmucke  replied.  "  Eh !  I  haf  not  ver'  long 
to  lif,  I  only  vant  a  corner  to  die  in." 

The  door  was  closed,  and  the  three  went  up  to  the  garret. 
*'  Dis  is  der  ding  for  me,"  Schmucke  cried  at  once.  "  Pefore 
I  lifd  mit  Bons,  I  vas  nefer  better  lodged." 

"  Very  well.  A  truckle-bed,  a  couple  of  mattresses,  a 
bolster,  a  pillow,  a  couple  of  chairs,  and  a  table — that  is  all 
that  you  need  to  buy.     That  will  not  ruin  you — it  may  cost 


COUSIN  PONS  293 

a  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  with  the  crockeryware  and  strip 
of  carpet  for  the  bedside." 

Everything  was  settled — save  the  money,  which  was  not 
forthcoming.  Schmucke  saw  that  his  new  friends  were  very 
poor,  and,  recollecting  that  the  theater  was  only  a  few 
steps  away,  it  naturally  occurred  to  him  to  apply  to  the 
manager  for  his  salary.  He  went  at  once,  and  found  Gaudis- 
sart  in  his  office.  Gaudissart  received  him  with  the  somewhat 
stiffly  polite  manner  which  he  reserved  for  professionals. 
Schmucke's  demand  for  a  month's  salary  took  him  by  sur- 
prise, but  on  inquiry  he  found  that  it  was  due. 

"  Oh,  confound  it,  my  good  man,  a  German  can  always 
count,  even  if  he  has  tears  in  his  eyes.  ...  I  thought 
that  you  would  have  taken  the  thousand  francs  that  I  sent 
you  into  account,  as  a  final  year's  salary,  and  that  we  were 
quits." 

"  We  haf  receifed  nodings,"  said  Schmucke ;  "  und  gif  I 
komm  to  you,  it  ees  because  I  am  In  der  shtreet,  und  haf 
not  ein  benny.     How  did  you  send  us  der  ponus  ?  " 

"  By  your  portress." 

"  By  Montame  Zipod !  "  exclaimed  Schmucke.  "  She  killed 
Bons,  she  robbed  him,  she  sold  him— she  tried  to  purn  his 
vill — she  is  a  pad  creature,  a  monster !  " 

"  But,  my  good  man,  how  come  you  to  be  out  in  the  street 
without  a  roof  over  your  head  or  a  penny  In  your  pocket, 
when  you  are  the  sole  heir.''  That  does  not  necessarily  fol- 
low, as  the  saying  is." 

"  They  haf  put  me  out  at  der  door.  I  am  a  vorelgner, 
I  know  nodings  of  die  laws." 

"  Poor  man !  "  thought  Gaudissart,  foreseeing  the  probable 
end  of  the  unequal  contest. — "  Listen,"  he  began,  "  do  you 
know  what  you  ought  to  do  In  this  business  ?  " 

"I  haf  ein  mann  of  pizness!" 

"  Very  good,  come  to  terms  at  once  with  the  next-of-kin ; 
make  them  pay  you  a  lump  sum  of  money  down  and  an 
annuity,  and  you  can  live  In  peace " 

"  I  ask  noding  more." 

"  Very  well.  Let  me  arrange  It  for  you,"  said  Gaudissart. 
Fraisier  had  told  him  the  whole  story  only  yesterday,  and 


294  COUSIN  PONS 

he  thought  that  he  saw  his  way  to  making  interest  out  of 
the  case  with  the  young  Vicomtesse  Popinot  and  her  mother. 
He  would  finish  a  dirty  piece  of  work,  and  some  day  he  would 
be  a  privy  councilor  at  least;  or  so  he  told  himself. 

"  I  gif  you  full  powers." 

"  Well.  Let  us  see.  Now,  to  begin  with,"  said  Gaudis- 
sart,  Napoleon  of  the  boulevard  theaters,  "  to  begin  with, 

here  are  a  hundred  crowns "  (he  took  fifteen  louis  from 

his  purse  and  handed  them  to  Schmucke). 

"  That  is  yours,  on  account  of  six  months'  salary.  If 
you  leave  the  theater,  you  can  repay  me  the  money.  Now 
for  your  budget.  What  are  your  yearly  expenses?  How 
much  do  you  want  to  be  comfortable.'*  Come,  now,  scheme 
out  a  life  for  a  Sardanapalus " 

"  I  only  need  two  suits  of  clothes,  von  for  der  vinter,  von 
for  der  sommer." 

*'  Three   hundred   francs,"   said  Gaudissart. 

"  Shoes.     Vour  bairs." 

"  Sixty  francs." 

"  Shtockings " 

"  A  dozen  pairs — thirty-six  francs." 

"  Half  a  tozzen  shirts." 

"  Six  calico  shirts,  twenty-four  francs ;  as  many  linen 
shirts,  forty-eight  francs ;  let  us  say  seventy-two.  That 
makes  four  hundred  and  sixty-eight  francs  altogether. — Say 
five  hundred,  including  cravats  and  pocket-handkerchiefs ;  a 
hundred  francs  for  the  laundress — six  hundred.  And  now, 
how  much  for  your  board — three  francs  a  day.'*" 

"  No,  it  ees  too  much." 

"  After  all,  you  want  hats ;  that  brings  it  to  fifteen  hun- 
dred ;  five  hundred  more  for  rent ;  that  makes  two  thousand. 
If  I  can  get  two  thousand  francs  per  annum  for  you,  are 
you  willing  .f*     .      .      .     Good  securities." 

"  Und  mein  tabacco." 

"  Two  thousand  four  hundred,  then.  .  .  .  Oh !  papa 
Schmucke,  do  you  call  that  tobacco?  Very  well,  the  tobacco 
shall  be  given  in. — So  that  is  two  thousand  four  hundred 
francs  per  annum." 

"  Dat  ees  not  all !     I  should  like  som  monny." 


COUSIN  PONS  295 

"  Pin-money ! — Just  so !  Oh,  these  Germans !  And  calls 
himself  an  innocent,  the  old  Robert  Macaire !  "  thought  Gau- 
dissart.  Aloud  he  said,  "  How  much  do  jou  want?  But  this 
must  be  the  last." 

"  It  ees  to  bay  a  zacred  debt." 

"  A  debt !  "  said  Gaudissart  to  himself.  "  What  a  shark 
it  is !  He  is  worse  than  an  eldest  son.  He  will  invent  a 
bill  or  two  next !  We  must  cut  him  short.  This  Fraisier 
cannot  take  large  views. — ^What  debt  is  this,  my  good  man.^* 
Speak  out." 

"  Dere  vas  but  von  mann  dot  half  mourned  Bons  mit  me. 
.  He  haf  a  tear  liddle  girl  mit  wunderschones  haar; 
it  vas  as  if  I  saw  mine  boor  Deutschland  dot  I  should  nefer 
haf  left.  .  .  .  Baris  is  no  blace  for  die  Germans ;  dey 
laugh  at  dem  "  (with  a  little  nod  as  he  spoke,  and  the  air 
of  a  man  who  knows  something  of  life  in  this  world  below). 

*'  He  is  off  his  head,"  Gaudissart  said  to  himself.  And 
a  sudden  pang  of  pity  for  this  poor  innocent  before  him 
brought  a  tear  to  the  manager's  eyes. 

"  Ah !  you  understand,  mennesir  le  directeur !  Ver'  goot. 
Dat  mann  mit  die  liddle  taughter  is  Dobinard,  vat  tidies  der 
orchestra  und  lights  die  lamps.  Bons  vas  fery  fond  of  him, 
und  helped  him.  He  vas  der  only  von  dat  accombanied  mein 
only  friend  to  die  church  und  to  die  grafe.  ...  I  vant 
dree  tausend  vrancs  for  him,  und  dree  tausend  for  die  liddle 


vone- 


"  Poor  fellow !  "  said  Gaudissart  to  himself. 

Rough,  self-made  man  though  he  was,  he  felt  touched  by 
this  nobleness  of  nature,  by  a  gratitude  for  a  mere  trifle, 
as  the  world  views  it ;  though  for  the  eyes  of  this  divine 
innocence  the  trifle,  like  Bossuet's  cup  of  water,  was  worth 
more  than  the  victories  of  great  captains.  Beneath  all 
Gaudissart's  vanity,  beneath  the  fierce  desire  to  succeed  in 
life  at  all  costs,  to  rise  to  the  social  level  of  his  old  friend 
Popinot,  there  lay  a  warm  heart  and  a  kindly  nature. 
Wherefore  he  canceled  his  too  hasty  judgments  and  went 
over  to  Schmucke's  side. 

"  You  shall  have  it  all !  But  I  will  do  better  still,  my  dear 
Schmucke.     Topinard  is  a  good  sort " 


296  COUSIN  PONS 

"  Yes.  I  haf  chust  peen  to  see  him  in  his  boor  home,  vere 
he  ees  happy  mit  his  children " 

"  I  will  give  him  the  cashier's  place.  Old  Baudrand  is 
going  to  leave." 

"  Ah !  Gott  pless  you !  "  cried  Schmucke. 

"  Very  well,  my  good,  kind  fellow,  meet  me  at  Berthier's 
office  about  four  o'clock  this  afternoon.  Everything  shall 
be  ready,  and  you  shall  be  secured  from  want  for  the  rest 
of  your  days.  You  shall  draw  your  six  thousand  francs, 
and  you  shall  have  the  same  salary  with  Garangeot  that  you 
used  to  have  with  Pons." 

"  No,"  Schmucke  answered.  "  I  shall  not  lif.  ...  I 
haf  no  heart  for  anydings ;  I  feel  that  I  am  attacked " 

"  Poor  lamb ! "  Gaudissart  muttered  to  himself  as  the 
Germ.an  took  his  leave.  "  But,  after  all,  one  lives  on  mutton; 
and,  as  the  sublime  Beranger  says,  '  Poor  sheep !  you  were 
made  to  be  shorn,'  "  and  he  hummed  the  political  squib  by 
way  of  giving  vent  to  his  feelings.  Then  he  rang  for  the 
office-boy. 

"  Call  my  carriage,"  he  said. 

"  Rue  de  Hanovre,"  he  told  the  coachman. 

The  man  of  ambitions  by  this  time  had  reappeared;  he 
saw  the  way  to  the  Council  of  State  lying  straight  before 
him. 

And  Schmucke?  He  was  busy  buying  flowers  and  cakes 
for   Topinard's   children,   and  went   home   almost   joyously. 

"  I  am  gifing  die  bresents  .  .  ."  he  said,  and  he  smiled 
It  was  the  first  smile  for  three  months,  but  anyone  who 
had  seen  Schmucke's  face  would  have  shuddered  to  see  it  there. 

"  But  dere  is  ein  condition " 

"  It  is  too  kind  of  you,  sir,"  said  the  mother. 

"  De  liddle  girl  shall  gif  me  a  kiss  and  put  die  flowers 
in  her  hair,  like  die  liddle  German  maidens " 

"  Olga,  child,  do  just  as  the  gentleman  wishes,"  said  the 
mother,  assuming  an  air  of  discipline. 

"  Do  not  scold  mein  liddle  German  girl,"  implored 
Schmucke.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  little  one  was  his  dear 
Germany.     Topinard  came  in. 


COUSIN  PONS  297 

"  Three  porters  are  bringing  up  the  whole  bag  of  tricks," 
he  said. 

"  Oh !  Here  are  two  hundred  vrancs  to  bay  for  efery- 
dings  .  .  ."  said  Schmucke.  "  But,  mein  friend,  your 
Montame  Dobinard  is  ver'  nice;  you  shall  marry  her,  is  it 
not  so?  I  shall  gif  you  tausend  crowns,  and  die  liddle  vone 
shall  haf  tausend  crowns  for  her  toury,  and  you  shall  infest 
it  in  her  name.  .  .  .  Und  you  are  not  to  pe  ein  zuper 
any  more — ^you  are  to  pe  de  cashier  at  de  teater " 

"  U  instead  of  old  Baudrand?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Who  told  you  so.?" 

"  Mennesir  Gautissart !  " 

"  Oh !  it  is  enough  to  send  one  wild  with  joy !  .  .  . 
Eh !  I  say,  Rosalie,  what  a  rumpus  there  will  be  at  the  thea- 
ter !     But  it  is  not  possible " 

Our  benefactor  must  not  live  in  a  garret- 


"  Pshaw !  for  die  few  tays  dat  I  haf  to  lif  it  ees  fery  kom- 
fortable,"  said  Schmucke.  "  Goot-py ;  I  am  going  to  der 
zemetery,  to  see  vat  dey  haf  don  mit  Bons,  und  to  order  som 
flowers  for  his  grafe." 

Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville  was  consumed  by  the  liveliest 
apprehensions.  At  a  council  held  with  Fraisier,  Berthier, 
and  Godeschal,  the  two  last-named  authorities  gave  it  as 
their  opinion  that  it  was  hopeless  to  dispute  a  will  drawn 
up  by  two  notaries  in  the  presence  of  two  witnesses,  so  pre- 
cisely was  the  instrument  worded  by  Leopold  Hannequin. 
Honest  Godeschal  said  that  even  if  Schmucke's  own  legal 
adviser  should  succeed  in  deceiving  him,  he  would  find  out 
the  truth  at  last,  if  it  were  only  from  some  officious  barrister, 
the  gentlemen  of  the  robe  being  wont  to  perform  such  acts 
of  generosity  and  disinterestedness  by  way  of  self-advertise- 
ment. And  the  two  officials  took  their  leave  of  the  Presidente 
with  a  parting  caution  against  Fraisier,  concerning  whom 
they  had  naturally  made  inquiries. 

At  that  very  moment  Fraisier,  straight  from  the  affixing 
of  the  seals  in  the  Rue  de  Normandie,  was  waiting  for  an 
interview  with  Mme.  de  Marville.     Berthier  and  Godeschal 


298  COUSIN  PONS 

had  suggested  that  he  should  be  shown  into  the  study ;  the 
whole  affair  was  too  dirty  for  the  President  to  look  into 
(to  use  their  own  expression),  and  they  wished  to  give  Mme. 
de  Marville  their  opinion  in  Fraisier's  absence. 

"  Well,  Madame,  where  are  these  gentlemen? "  asked 
Fraisier,  admitted  to  audience. 

"  They  are  gone.  They  advise  me  to  give  up,"  said 
Mme.  de  Marville. 

"  Give  up !  "  repeated  Fraisier,  suppressed  fury  in  his  voice. 
"  Give  up !     .     .     .     Listen  to  this,  Madame : — 

"  '  At  the  request  of  .  .  .  and  so  forth  (I  will  omit 
the  formalities)  .  .  .  'Whereas  there  has  been  depos- 
ited in  the  hands  of  M.  le  President  of  the  Court  of  First 
Instance,  a  will  drawn  up  by  Maitres  Leopold  Mannequin 
and  Alexandre  Crottat,  notaries  of  Paris,  and  in  the  presence 
of  two  witnesses,  the  Sieurs  Brunner  and  Schwab,  aliens 
domiciled  at  Paris,  and  by  the  said  will  the  Sicur  Pons,  de- 
ceased, has  bequeathed  his  property  to  one  Sieur  Schmucke, 
a  German,  to  the  prejudice  of  his  natural  heirs: 

"  '  Whereas  the  applicant  undertakes  to  prove  that  the 
said  will  was  obtained  under  undue  influence  and  by  unlawful 
means ;  and  persons  of  credit  are  prepared  to  show  that  it 
was  the  testator's  intention  to  leave  his  fortune  to  Mile. 
Cecile,  daughter  of  the  aforesaid  Sieur  de  Marville,  and 
the  applicant  can  show  that  the  said  will  was  extorted  from 
the  testator's  weakness,  he  being  unaccountable  for  his 
actions  at  the  time: 

"  '  Whereas  the  Sieur  Schmucke,  to  obtain  a  will  in  his 
favor,  sequestrated  the  testator,  and  prevented  the  family 
from  approaching  the  deceased  during  his  last  illness ;  and 
his  subsequent  notorious  ingratitude  was  of  a  nature  to  scan- 
dalize the  house  and  residents  in  the  quarter  who  chanced 
to  witness  it  when  attending  the  funeral  of  the  porter  at 
the  testator's  place  of  abode : 

" '  Whereas  still  more  serious  charges,  of  which  appli- 
cant is  collecting  proofs,  will  be  formally  made  before  their 
•worships  the  judges: 

*' '  I,  the  undersigned  Registrar  of  the  Court,  etc.,  etc., 


COUSIN  PONS  299 

on  behalf  of  the  aforesaid,  etc.,  have  summoned  the  Sieur 
Schmucke,  pleading,  etc.,  to  appear  before  their  worships 
the  judges  of  the  first  chamber  of  the  Tribunal,  and  to  be 
present  when  application  is  made  that  the  will  received  by 
Maitres  Hannequin  and  Crottat,  being  evidently  obtained 
by  undue  influence,  shall  be  regarded  as  null  and  void  in  law ; 
and  I,  the  undersigned,  on  behalf  of  the  aforesaid,  etc.,  have 
likewise  given  notice  of  protest,  should  the  Sieur  Schmucke 
as  universal  legatee  make  application  for  an  order  to  be  put 
into  possession  of  the  estate,  seeing  that  the  applicant  op- 
poses such  order,  and  makes  objection  by  his  application 
bearing  date  of  to-day,  of  which  a  copy  has  been  duly  de- 
posited with  the  Sieur  Schmucke,  costs  being  charged  to 
etc.,  etc' 

"  I  know  the  man,  Mme.  la  Presidente.  He  will  come  to 
terms  as  soon  as  he  reads  this  little  love-letter.  He  will 
consult  Tabareau,  and  Tabareau  will  advise  him  to  take  our 
terms.  Are  you  going  to  give  the  thousand  crowns  per 
annum.''  " 

"  Certainly.  I  only  wish  I  were  paying  the  first  install- 
ment now." 

"  It  will  be  done  in  three  days.  The  summons  will  come 
down  upon  him  while  he  is  stupefied  with  grief,  for  the  poor 
soul  regrets  Pons  and  is  taking  the  death  to  heart." 

"Can  the  application  be  withdrawn.''"  inquired  the 
lady. 

"  Certainly,  Madame.     You  can  withdraw  at  any  time." 

"  Very  well.  Monsieur,  let  it  be  so  .  .  .  go  on !  Yes, 
the  purchase  of  land  that  you  have  arranged  for  me  is  worth 
the  trouble ;  and,  besides,  I  have  managed  Vitel's  business — he 
is  to  retire,  and  you  must  pay  Vitel's  sixty  thousand  francs 
out  of  Pons's  property.     So,  you  see,  you  must  succeed." 

"  Have  you  Vitel's  resignation  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur.  M.  Vitel  has  put  himself  in  M.  de 
Marville's  hands." 

"  Very  good,  Madame.  I  have  already  saved  you  sixty 
thousand  francs  which  I  expected  to  give  to  that  vile  creature 
Mme.   Cibot.     But  I   still   require  the  tobacconist's   license 


SOO  COUSIN  PONS 

for  the  woman  Sauvage,  and  an  appointment  to  the  vacant 
place  of  head-physician  at  the  Quinze-Vingts  for  my  friend 
Poulain." 

"  Agreed — it  is  all  arranged." 

"  Very  well.  There  is  no  more  to  be  said.  Everyone 
is  for  you  in  this  business,  even  Gaudissart,  the  manager  of 
the  theater.  I  went  to  look  him  up  yesterday,  and  he  under- 
took to  crush  the  workman  who  seemed  likely  to  give  us 
trouble." 

"  Oh,  I  know  M.  Gaudissart  is  devoted  to  the  Popinots." 

Fraisier  went  out.  Unluckily,  he  missed  Gaudissart,  and 
the  fatal  summons  was  served  forthwith. 

If  all  covetous  minds  will  sympathize  with  the  Presidente, 
all  honest  folk  will  turn  in  abhorrence  from  her  joy  when 
Gaudissart  came  twenty  minutes  later  to  report  his  con- 
versation with  poor  Schmucke.  She  gave  her  full  approval ; 
she  was  obliged  beyond  all  expression  for  the  thoughtful  way 
in  which  the  manager  relieved  her  of  any  remaining  scruples 
by  observations  which  seemed  to  her  to  be  very  sensible  and 
just. 

"  I  thought  as  I  came,  Mme.  la  Presidente,  that  the  poor 
devil  would  not  know  what  to  do  with  the  money.  'Tis  a 
patriarchally  simple  nature.  He  is  a  child,  he  is  a  German, 
he  ought  to  be  stuffed  and  put  in  a  glass  case  like  a  waxen 
image.  Which  is  to  say  that,  in  my  opinion,  he  is  quite 
puzzled  enough  already  with  his  income  of  two  thousand  five 
hundred  francs,  and  here  you  are  provoking  him  into  ex- 
travagance  " 

*'  It  is  very  generous  of  him  to  wish  to  enrich  the  poor 
fellow  who  regrets  the  loss  of  our  cousin,"  pronounced  the 
Presidente.  "  For  my  own  part,  I  am  sorry  for  the  little 
squabble  that  estranged  M.  Pons  and  me.  If  he  had  come 
back  again,  all  would  have  been  forgiven.  If  you  only  knew 
how  my  husband  misses  him !  M.  de  Marville  received  no 
notice  of  the  death,  and  was  in  despair ;  family  claims  are 
sacred  for  him,  he  would  have  gone  to  the  ser^ace  and  the 
interment,  and  I  myself  should  have  been  at  the  Mass " 

"  Very  well,  fair  lady,"  said  Gaudissart.  "  Be  so  good  as 
to  have  the  documents  drawn  up,  and  at  four  o'clock  I  will 


COUSIN  PONS  301 

bring  this  German  to  you.  Please  remember  me  to  your 
charming  daughter  the  Vicomtesse,  and  ask  her  to  tell  my 
illustrious  friend  the  great  statesman,  her  good  and  excellent 
father-in-law,  how  deeply  I  am  devoted  to  him  and  his,  and 
ask  him  to  continue  his  valued  favors.  I  owe  my  life  to  his 
uncle  the  judge,  and  my  success  in  life  to  him;  and  I  should 
wish  to  be  bound  to  both  you  and  your  daughter  by  the  high 
esteem  which  links  us  with  persons  of  rank  and  influence. 
I  wish  to  leave  the  theater  and  become  a  serious  person." 

"  As  you  are  already.  Monsieur !  "  said  the  Presidente. 

"  Adorable ! "  returned  Gaudissart,  kissing  the  lady's 
shriveled  fingers. 

At  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  several  people  were  gathered 
together  at  Berthier's  office :  Fraisier,  arch-concocter  of  the 
whole  scheme ;  Tabareau,  appearing  on  behalf  of  Schmucke, 
and  Schmucke  himself.  Gaudissart  had  come  with  him. 
Fraisier  had  been  careful  to  spread  out  the  money  on 
Berthier's  desk,  and  so  dazzled  was  Schmucke  by  the  sight 
of  the  six  thousand  franc  banknotes  for  which  he  had  asked, 
and  six  hundred  francs  for  the  first  quarter's  allowance,  that 
he  paid  no  heed  whatsoever  to  the  reading  of  the  document. 
Poor  man,  he  was  scarcely  in  full  possession  of  his  faculties, 
shaken  as  they  had  already  been  by  so  many  shocks.  Gaudis- 
sart had  snatched  him  up  on  his  return  from  the  cemetery, 
where  he  had  been  talking  with  Pons,  promising  to  join  him 
soon — very  soon.  So  Schmucke  did  not  listen  to  the  preamble 
in  which  it  was  set  forth  that  Maitre  Tabareau,  bailiff,  was 
acting  as  his  proxy,  and  that  the  Presidente,  in  the  interests 
of  her  daughter,  was  taking  legal  proceedings  against  him. 
Altogether,  in  that  preamble  the  German  played  a  sorry 
part,  but  he  put  his  name  to  the  document,  and  thereby  ad- 
mitted the  truth  of  Fraisier's  abominable  allegations ;  and 
so  joyous  was  he  over  receiving  the  money  for  the  Topinards, 
so  glad  to  bestow  wealth  according  to  his  little  ideas  upon  the 
one  creature  who  loved  Pons,  that  he  heard  not  a  word  of 
lawsuit  nor  compromise. 

But  in  the  middle  of  the  reading  a  clerk  came  into  the 
private  office  to  speak  to  his  employer.  "  There  is  a  man 
here,  sir,  who  wishes  to  speak  to  M.  Schmucke,"  said  he. 


302  COUSIN  PONS 

The  notary  looked  at  Fraisier,  and,  taking  his  cue  from 
him,  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Never  disturb  us  when  we  are  signing  documents.  Just 
ask  his  name — is  it  a  man  or  a  gentleman?  Is  he  a  cred- 
itor?" 

The  clerk  went  and  returned.  "  He  insists  that  he  must 
speak  to  M.  Schraucke." 

"  His  name?  " 

"  His  name  is  Topinard,  he  says." 

"  I  will  go  out  to  him.  Sign  without  disturbing  yourself,'* 
said  Gaudissart,  addressing  Schmucke.  "  Make  an  end  of 
it ;  I  will  find  out  what  he  wants  with  us." 

Gaudissart  understood  Fraisier ;  both  scented  danger. 

*'  Why  are  you  here?  "  Gaudissart  began.  "  So  you  have 
no  mind  to  be  cashier  at  the  theater?  Discretion  is  a 
cashier's  first  recommendation." 

"  Sir " 

*'  Just  mind  your  own  business ;  you  will  never  be  anything 
if  you  meddle  in  other  people's  affairs." 

"  Sir,  I  cannot  eat  bread  if  every  mouthful  of  it  is  to 
stick  in  my  throat.  .  .  .  M.  Schmucke ! — M.  Schmucke !  " 
he  shouted  aloud. 

Schmucke  came  out  at  the  sound  of  Topinard's  voice. 
He  had  just  signed.     He  held  the  money  in  his  hand. 

"  These  ees  for  die  liddle  German  maiden  und  for  you," 
he  said. 

"  Oh !  my  dear  M.  Schmucke,  you  have  given  away  your 
wealth  to  inhuman  wretches,  to  people  who  are  trying  to  take 
away  your  good  name.  I  took  this  paper  to  a  good  man, 
an  attorney  who  knows  this  Fraisier,  and  he  says  that  you 
ought  to  punish  such  wickedness ;  you  ought  to  let  them 
summon  you  and  leave  them  to  get  out  of  it. — Read  this," 
and  Schmucke's  imprudent  friend  held  out  the  summons  de- 
livered in  the  Cite  Bordin. 

Standing  in  the  notary's  gateway,  Schmucke  read  the 
document,  saw  the  imputations  made  against  him,  and,  all 
ignorant  as  he  was  of  the  amenities  of  the  law,  the  blow 
was  deadly.  The  little  grain  of  sand  stopped  his  heart's 
beating.     Topinard  caught  him  in  his  arms,  hailed  a  passing 


COUSIN  PONS  303 

cab,  and  put  the  poor  German  into  it.  He  was  suffering  from 
congestion  of  the  brain ;  his  eyes  were  dim,  his  head  was 
throbbing,  but  he  had  enough  strength  left  to  put  the  money 
into  Topinard's  hands. 

Schmucke  ralHed  from  the  first  attack,  but  he  never  re- 
covered consciousness,  and  refused  to  eat.  Ten  days  after- 
wards he  died  without  a  complaint ;  to  the  last  he  had  not 
spoken  a  word.  Mme.  Topinard  nursed  him,  and  Topinard 
laid  him  by  Pons's  side.  It  was  an  obscure  funeral;  Top- 
inard was  the  only  mourner  who  followed  the  son  of  Germany 
to  his  last  resting-place. 

Frasier,  now  a  justice  of  the  peace,  is  very  intimate  with 
the  President's  family,  and  much  valued  by  the  Presidente. 
She  could  not  think  of  allowing  him  to  marry  "  that  girl 
of  Tabareau's,"  and  promises  infinitely  better  things  for  the 
clever  man  to  whom  she  considers  that  she  owes  not  merely 
the  pasture-land  and  the  English  cottage  at  Marville,  but 
also  the  President's  seat  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  for 
M.  le  President  was  returned  at  the  general  election  in  1846. 

Everyone,  no  doubt,  wishes  to  know  what  became  of  the 
heroine  of  a  story  only  too  veracious  in  its  details ;  a  chronicle 
which,  taken  with  its  twin  sister  the  preceding  volume,^ 
proves  that  Character  is  the  great  social  force.  You,  O 
amateurs,  connoisseurs,  and  dealers,  will  guess  at  once  that 
Pons's  collection  is  now  in  question.  Wherefore  it  will  suffice 
if  we  are  present  during  a  conversation  that  took  place  only 
a  few  days  ago  in  Count  Popinot's  house.  He  was  showing 
his  splendid  collection  to  some  visitors. 

"  M.  le  Comte,  you  possess  treasures  indeed,"  remarked 
a  distinguished  foreigner. 

"  Oh!  as  to  pictures,  nobody  can  hope  to  rival  an  obscure 
collector,  one  Elie  Magus,  a  Jew,  an  old  monomaniac,  the 
prince  of  picture-lovers,"  the  Count  replied  modestly.  *'  And 
when  I  say  nobody,  I  do  not  speak  of  Paris  only,  but  of  all 
Europe.  When  the  old  Croesus  dies,  France  ought  to  spare 
seven  or  eight  millions  of  francs  to  buy  the  gallery.     For 

^  La  Cousine  Bette. 


S04  COUSIN  PONS 

curiosities,  my  collection  is  good  enough  to  be  talked 
about " 

"  But  how,  busy  as  you  are,  and  with  a  fortune  so  honestly 
earned  in  the  first  instance  in  business " 

"  In  the  drug  business,"  broke  in  Popinot ;  "  you  ask  how 
I  can  continue  to  interest  myself  in  things  that  are  a  drug 
in  the  market " 

"  No,"  returned  the  foreign  visitor,  "  no,  but  how  do  you 
find  time  to  collect?  The  curiosities  do  not  come  to  find 
you." 

"  My  father-in-law  owned  the  nucleus  of  the  collection," 
said  the  young  Vicomtesse ;  "  he  loved  the  arts  and  beautiful 
work,  but  most  of  his  treasures  came  to  him  through 
me." 

"  Through  you,  Madame.? — So  young!  and  yet  have  you 
such  vices  as  this.?"  asked  a  Russian  prince. 

Russians  are  by  nature  imitative ;  imitative  indeed  to  such 
an  extent  that  the  diseases  of  civilization  break  out  among 
them  in  epidemics.  The  bric-a-brac  mania  had  appeared  in 
an  acute  form  in  St.  Petersburg,  and  the  Russians  caused 
such  a  rise  of  prices  in  the  "  art  line,"  as  Remonencq  would 
say,  that  collections  became  impossible.  The  prince  who 
spoke  had  come  to  Paris  solely  to  buy  bric-a-brac. 

"  The  treasures  came  to  me.  Prince,  on  the  death  of  a 
cousin.  He  was  very  fond  of  me,"  added  the  Vicomtesse 
Popinot,  "  and  he  had  spent  some  forty  odd  years  since  1805 
in  picking  up  these  masterpieces  everywhere,  but  more  espe- 
cially in  Italy " 

"  And  what  was  his  name?  "  inquired  the  English  lord. 

"  Pons,"  said  President  Camusot. 

"  A  charming  man  he  was,"  piped  the  Presidente  in  her 
thin,  flute  tones,  "  very  clever,  very  eccentric,  and  yet  very 
good-hearted.  This  fan  that  you  admire  once  belonged  to 
Mme.  de  Pompadour ;  he  gave  it  to  me  one  morning  with 
a  pretty  speech  which  you  must  permit  me  not  to  repeat," 
and  she  glanced  at  her  daughter. 

"  Mme.  la  Vicomtesse,  tell  us  the  pretty  speech,"  begged 
the  Russian  prince. 

"  The   speech  was   as   pretty   as   the  fan,"   returned  the 


COUSIN  PONS  305 

Vicomtesse,  who  brought  out  the  stereotyped  remark  on  all 
occasions.  "  He  told  my  mother  that  it  was  quite  time  that 
it  should  pass  from  the  hands  of  vice  into  those  of  virtue." 
The  English  lord  looked  at  Mme.  Camusot  de  Marville  with 
an  air  of  doubt  not  a  little  gratifying  to  so  withered  a 
woman. 

"  He  used  to  dine  at  our  house  two  or  three  times  a  week," 
she  said ;  "  he  was  so  fond  of  us !  We  could  appreciate 
him,  and  artists  like  the  society  of  those  who  relish  their  wit. 
My  husband  was,  besides,  his  one  surviving  relative.  So 
when,  quite  unexpectedly,  M.  de  Marville  came  into  the  prop- 
erty, M.  le  Comte  preferred  to  take  over  the  whole  collection- 
to  save  it  from  a  sale  by  auction ;  and  we  ourselves  much  pre- 
ferred to  dispose  of  it  in  that  way,  for  it  would  have  been 
so  painful  to  us  to  see  the  beautiful  things,  in  which  our 
dear  cousin  was  so  much  interested,  all  scattered  abroad. 
Elie  Magus  valued  them,  and  in  that  way  I  became  possessed 
of  the  cottage  that  your  uncle  built,  and  I  hope  you  will  do 
us  the  honor  of  coming  to  see  us  there." 

Gaudissart's  theater  passed  into  other  hands  a  year  ago, 
but  M.  Topinard  is  still  the  cashier.  M.  Topinard,  how- 
ever, has  grown  gloomy  and  misanthropic ;  he  says  little. 
People  think  that  he  has  something  on  his  conscience.  Wags 
at  the  theater  suggest  that  his  gloom  dates  from  his  marriage 
with  Lolotte.  Honest  Topinard  starts  whenever  he  hears 
Fraisier's  name  mentioned.  Some  people  may  think  it 
strange  that  the  one  nature  worthy  of  Pons  and  Schmucke 
should  be  found  on  the  third  floor  beneath  the  stage  of  a 
boulevard  theater. 

Mme.  Remonencq,  much  impressed  with  Mme.  Fontaine's 
prediction,  declines  to  retire  to  the  country.  She  is  still 
living  in  her  splendid  shop  on  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine, 
but  she  is  a  widow  now  for  the  second  time.  Remonencq,  in 
fact,  by  the  terms  of  the  marriage  contract,  settled  the 
property  upon  the  survivor,  and  left  a  little  glass  of  vitriol 
about  for  his  wife  to  drink  by  mistake ;  but  his  wife,  with 
the  very  best  intentions,  put  the  glass  elsewhere,  and  Remo- 
nencq swallowed  the  draught  himself.     The  rascal's  appro- 


806  COUSIN  PONS 

priate  end  vindicates  Providence,  as  well  as  the  chronicler 
of  manners,  who  is  sometimes  accused  of  neglect  on  this 
head,  perhaps  because  Providence  has  been  so  overworked 
by  playwrights  of  late. 

Pardon  the  transcriber's  errors. 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CAT  AND 
RACKET 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CAT  AND  RACKET 

Dedicated  to  Mile.  Marie  de  Montheau. 

HALFWAY  down  the  Rue  Saint-Denis,  almost  at  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  du  Petit-Lion,  there  stood  foiTnerly 
one  of  those  dehghtful  houses  which  enable  historians  to 
reconstruct  old  Paris  by  analogy.  The  threatening  walls 
of  this  tumbledown  abode  seemed  to  have  been  decorated 
with  hieroglyphics.  For  what  other  name  could  the  passerby 
give  to  the  X's  and  V's  which  the  horizontal  or  diagonal  tim- 
bers traced  on  the  front,  outlined  by  little  parallel  cracks 
in  the  plaster?  It  was  evident  that  every  beam  quivered 
in  its  mortices  at  the  passing  of  the  lightest  vehicle.  This 
venerable  structure  was  crowned  by  a  triangular  roof  of 
which  no  example  will,  ere  long,  be  seen  in  Paris.  This 
covering,  warped  by  the  extremes  of  the  Paris  climate,  pro- 
jected three  feet  over  the  roadway,  as  much  to  protect  the 
threshold  from  the  rainfall  as  to  shelter  the  wall  of  a  loft 
and  its  sill-less  dormer  window.  This  upper  story  was 
built  of  planks,  overlapping  each  other  like  slates,  in  order, 
no  doubt,  not  to  overweight  the  frail  house. 

One  rainy  morning  in  the  month  of  March,  a  young  man, 
carefully  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  stood  under  the  awning  of 
a  shop  opposite  this  old  house,  which  he  was  studying  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  an  antiquary.  In  point  of  fact,  this  relic 
of  the  civic  life  of  the  sixteenth  century  offered  more  than 
one  problem  to  the  consideration  of  an  observer.  Each 
story  presented  some  singularity ;  on  the  first  floor  four 
tall,  narrow  windows,  close  together,  were  filled  as  to  the 
lower  panes  with  boards,  so  as  to  produce  the  doubtful  light 
by  which  a  clever  salesman  can  ascribe  to  his  goods  the  color 
his  customers  inquire  for.  The  young  man  seemed  very 
scornful  of  this  essential  part  of  the  house;  his  eyes  had 
not  yet  rested  on  it.  The  windows  of  the  second  floor,  where 
the  Venetian  blinds  were  drawn  up,  revealing  little  dingy 
muslin  curtains  beliind  the  large  Bohemian  glass  panes,  did 


2  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

not  interest  him  either.  His  attention  was  attracted  to  the 
third  floor,  to  the  modest  sash-frames  of  wood,  so  clumsily 
wrought  that  they  might  have  found  a  place  in  the  Museum 
of  Arts  and  Crafts  to  illustrate  the  early  efforts  of  French 
carpentry.  These  windows  were  glazed  with  small  squares 
of  glass  so  green  that,  but  for  his  good  eyes,  the  young 
man  could  not  have  seen  the  blue-checked  cotton  curtains 
which  screened  the  mysteries  of  the  room  from  profane  eyes. 
Now  and  then  the  watcher,  weary  of  his  fruitless  contempla- 
tion, or  of  the  silence  in  which  the  house  was  buried,  like 
the  whole  neighborhood,  dropped  his  eyes  towards  the  lower 
regions.  An  involuntary  smile  parted  his  lips  each  time  he 
looked  at  the  shop,  where,  in  fact,  there  were  some  laughable 
details. 

A  formidable  wooden  beam,  resting  on  four  pillars,  which 
appeared  to  have  bent  under  the  weight  of  the  decrepit 
house,  had  been  encrusted  with  as  many  coats  of  different 
paint  as  there  are  of  rouge  on  an  old  duchess's  cheek.  In 
the  middle  of  this  broad  and  fantastically  carved  joist  there 
was  an  old  painting  representing  a  cat  playing  rackets.  This 
picture  was  what  moved  the  young  man  to  mirth.  But  it 
must  be  said  that  the  wittiest  of  modem  painters  could  not 
invent  so  comical  a  caricature.  The  animal  held  in  one  of 
its  forcpaws  a  racket  as  big  as  itself,  and  stood  on  its 
hind  legs  to  aim  at  hitting  an  enormous  ball,  returned  by 
a  man  in  a  fine  embroidered  coat.  Drawing,  color,  and 
accessories,  all  were  treated  in  such  a  way  as  to  suggest 
that  the  artist  had  meant  to  make  game  of  the  shop-owner 
and  of  the  passing  observer.  Time,  while  impairing  this 
artless  painting,  had  made  it  yet  more  grotesque  by  intro- 
ducing some  uncertain  features  which  must  have  puzzled 
the  conscientious  idler.  For  instance,  the  cat's  tail  had  been 
eaten  into  in  such  a  way  that  it  might  now  have  been  taken 
for  the  figure  of  a  spectator — so  long,  and  thick,  and  furry 
were  the  tails  of  our  forefathers'  cats.  To  the  right  of  the 
picture,  on  an  azure  field  which  ill  disguised  the  decay  of 
the  wood,  might  be  read  the  name  "  Guillaume,"  and  to  the 
left,  "  Successor  to  Master  Chevrel."  Sun  and  rain  had  worn 
away  most  of  the  gilding  parsimoniously  applied  to  the  letters 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  3 

of  this  superscription,  in  which  the  U's  and  V's  had  changed 
places  in  obedience  to  the  laws  of  old-world  orthography. 

To  quench  the  pride  of  those  who  believe  that  the  world 
is  growing  cleverer  day  by  day,  and  that  modem  humbug 
surpasses  everything,  it  may  be  observed  that  these  signs, 
of  which  the  origin  seems  so  whimsical  to  many  Paris  mer- 
chants, are  the  dead  pictures  of  once  living  pictures  by  which 
our  roguish  ancestors  contrived  to  tempt  customers  into 
their  houses.  Thus  the  Spinning  Sow,  the  Green  Monkey, 
and  others,  were  animals  in  cages  whose  skill  astonished  the 
passerby,  and  whose  accomplishments  prove  the  patience  of 
the  fifteenth-century  artisan.  Such  curiosities  did  more  to 
enrich  their  fortunate  owners  than  the  signs  of  "  Providence," 
"  Good-faith,"  "  Grace  of  God,"  and  "  Decapitation  of  John 
the  Baptist,"  which  may  still  be  seen  in  the  Rue  Saint-Denis. 

However,  our  stranger  was  certainly  not  standing  there 
to  admire  the  cat,  which  a  minute's  attention  sufficed  to 
stamp  on  his  memory.  The  young  man  himself  had  his 
peculiarities.  His  cloak,  folded  after  the  manner  of  an 
antique  drapery,  showed  a  smart  pair  of  shoes,  all  the  more 
remarkable  in  the  midst  of  the  Paris  mud  because  he  wore 
white  silk  stockings,  on  which  the  splashes  betrayed  his  im- 
patience. He  had  just  come,  no  doubt,  from  a  wedding  or 
a  ball;  for  at  this  early  hour  he  had  in  his  hand  a  pair  of 
white  gloves,  and  his  black  hair,  now  out  of  curl,  and  flowing 
over  his  shoulders,  showed  that  it  had  been  dressed  a  la 
Caracalla,  a  fashion  introduced  as  much  by  David's  school 
of  painting  as  by  the  mania  for  Greek  and  Roman  styles 
which  characterized  the  early  years  of  this  century. 

In  spite  of  the  noise  made  by  a  few  market  gardeners, 
who,  being  late,  rattled  past  towards  the  great  market-place 
at  a  gallop,  the  busy  street  lay  in  a  stillness  of  which  the 
magic  charm  is  known  only  to  those  who  have  wandered 
through  deserted  Paris  at  the  hours  when  its  roar,  hushed 
for  a  moment,  rises  and  spreads  in  the  distance  like  the 
great  voice  of  the  sea.  This  strange  young  man  must  have 
seemed  as  curious  to  the  shopkeeping  folk  of  the  "  Cat  and 
Racket "  as  the  "  Cat  and  Racket  "  was  to  him.  A  daz- 
zlingly  white  cravat  made  his  anxious  face  look  even  paler 


4  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

than  it  really  was.  The  fire  that  flashed  in  his  black  ejes, 
gloomy  and  sparkling  by  turns,  was  in  harmony  with  the 
singular  outline  of  his  features,  with  his  wide,  flexible  mouth, 
hardened  into  a  smile.  His  forehead,  knit  with  violent  annoy- 
ance, had  a  stamp  of  doom.  Is  not  the  forehead  the  most 
prophetic  feature  of  a  man.''  When  the  stranger's  brow  ex- 
pressed passion  the  furrows  formed  in  it  were  terrible  in 
their  strength  and  energy ;  but  when  he  recovered  his  calm- 
ness, so  easily  upset,  it  beamed  with  a  luminous  grace  which 
gave  great  attractiveness  to  a  countenance  in  which  joy, 
grief,  love,  anger,  or  scorn  blazed  out  so  contagiously  that 
the  coldest  man  could  not  fail  to  be  impressed. 

He  was  so  thoroughly  vexed  by  the  time  when  the  dormer 
window  of  the  loft  was  suddenly  flung  open,  that  he  did 
not  observe  the  apparition  of  three  laughing  faces,  pink  and 
white  and  chubby,  but  as  vulgar  as  the  face  of  Commerce 
as  it  is  seen  in  sculpture  on  certain  monuments.  These  three 
faces,  framed  by  the  window,  recalled  the  puff^y  cherubs 
floating  among  the  clouds  that  surround  God  the  Father. 
The  apprentices  snuff'ed  up  the  exhalations  of  the  street 
with  an  eagerness  that  showed  how  hot  and  poisonous  the 
atmosphere  of  their  garret  must  be.  After  pointing  to 
the  singular  sentinel,  the  most  jovial,  as  he  seemed,  of  the 
apprentices  retired  and  came  back  holding  an  instrument 
whose  hard  metal  pipe  is  now  superseded  by  a  leather  tube; 
and  they  all  grinned  with  mischief  as  they  looked  down 
on  the  loiterer,  and  sprinkled  him  with  a  fine  white  shower 
of  which  the  scent  proved  that  three  chins  had  just  been 
shaved.  Standing  on  tiptoe,  in  the  farthest  comer  of  their 
loft,  to  enjoy  their  victim's  rage,  the  lads  ceased  laughing  on 
seeing  the  haughty  indiff'erence  with  which  the  young  man 
shook  his  cloak,  and  the  intense  contempt  expressed  by  his 
face  as  he  glanced  up  at  the  empty  window  frame. 

At  this  moment  a  slender  white  hand  threw  up  the  lower 
half  of  one  of  the  clumsy  windows  on  the  third  floor  by 
the  aid  of  the  sash  runners,  of  which  the  pulley  so  often 
suddenly  gives  way  and  releases  the  heavy  panes  it  ought 
to  hold  up.  The  watcher  was  then  rewarded  for  his  long 
waiting.     The  face  of  a  young  girl  appeared,  as  fresh  as 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  5 

one  of  the  white  cups  that  bloom  on  the  bosom  of  the  waters, 
crowned  by  a  frill  of  tumbled  muslin,  which  gave  her  head 
a  look  of  exquisite  innocence.  Though  wrapped  in  brown 
stuff,  her  neck  and  shoulders  gleamed  here  and  there  through 
little  openings  left  by  her  movements  in  sleep.  No  expres- 
sion of  embarrassment  detracted  from  the  candor  of  her 
face,  or  the  calm  look  of  eyes  immortalized  long  since  in 
the  sublime  works  of  Raphael;  here  were  the  same  grace, 
the  same  repose  as  in  these  Virgins,  and  now  proverbial. 
There  was  a  delightful  contrast  between  the  cheeks  of  that 
face  on  which  sleep  had,  as  it  were,  given  high  relief  to  a 
superabundance  of  life,  and  the  antiquity  of  the  heavy  window 
with  its  clumsy  shape  and  black  sill.  Like  those  day-blowing 
flowers,  which  in  the  early  morning  have  not  yet  unfurled 
their  cups,  twisted  by  the  chills  of  night,  the  girl,  as  yet 
hardly  awake,  let  her  blue  eyes  wander  beyond  the  neighbor- 
ing roofs  to  look  at  the  sky ;  then,  from  habit,  she  cast  them 
down  on  the  gloomy  depths  of  the  street,  where  they  imme- 
diately met  those  of  her  adorer.  Vanity,  no  doubt,  distressed 
her  at  being  seen  in  undress ;  she  started  back,  the  worn 
pulley  gave  way,  and  the  sash  fell  with  the  rapid  run  which 
in  our  day  has  earned  for  this  artless  invention  of  our  fore- 
fathers an  odious  name.^  The  vision  had  disappeared.  To 
the  young  man  the  most  radiant  star  of  morning  seemed  to 
be  hidden  by  a  cloud. 

During  these  little  incidents  the  heavy  inside  shutters  that 
protected  the  slight  windows  of  the  shop  of  the  "  Cat  and 
Racket "  had  been  removed  as  if  by  magic.  The  old  door 
with  its  knocker  was  opened  back  against  the  wall  of  the 
entry  by  a  man-servant,  apparently  coeval  with  the  sign, 
who,  with  a  shaking  hand,  hung  upon  it  a  square  of  cloth, 
on  which  were  embroidered  in  yellow  silk  the  words :  "  Guil- 
laurae.  Successor  to  Chevrel."  Many  a  passerby  would  have 
found  it  difficult  to  guess  the  class  of  trade  carried  on  by 
M.  Guillaume.  Between  the  strong  iron  bars  which  pro- 
tected his  shop  windows  on  the  outside,  certain  packages, 
wrapped  in  brown  linen,  were  hardly  visible,  though  as  numer- 
ous as  herrings  swimming  in  a  shoal.  Notwithstanding  the 
*  Fenetre  h  la  Guillotine. 


6  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

primitive  aspect  of  the  Gothic  front,  M.  Guillaume,  of  all  the 
merchant  clothiers  in  Paris,  was  the  one  whose  stores  were 
always  the  best  provided,  whose  connections  were  the  most 
extensive,  and  whose  commercial  honesty  never  lay  under 
the  slightest  suspicion.  If  some  of  his  brethren  in  business 
made  a  contract  with  the  Government,  and  had  not  the 
required  quantity  of  cloth,  he  was  always  ready  to  deliver 
it,  however  large  the  number  of  pieces  tendered  for.  The 
wily  dealer  knew  a  thousand  ways  of  extracting  the  largest 
profits  without  being  obliged,  like  them,  to  court  patrons, 
cringing  to  them,  or  making  them  costly  presents.  When 
his  fellow-tradesmen  could  only  pay  in  good  bills  of  long 
date,  he  would  mention  his  notary  as  an  accommodating  man, 
and  managed  to  get  a  second  profit  out  of  the  bargain, 
thanks  to  this  arrangement,  which  had  made  it  a  proverb 
among  the  traders  of  the  Rue  Saint-Denis :  "  Heaven  preserve 
you  from  M.  Guillaume's  notary !  "  to  signify  a  heavy  dis- 
count. 

The  old  merchant  was  to  be  seen  standing  on  the  threshold 
of  his  shop,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  the  instant  the  servant  with- 
drew. M.  Guillaume  looked  at  the  Rue  Saint-Denis,  at  the 
neighboring  shops,  and  at  the  weather,  like  a  man  disem- 
barking at  Havre,  and  seeing  France  once  more  after  a  long 
voyage.  Having  convinced  himself  that  nothing  had  changed 
while  he  was  asleep,  he  presently  perceived  the  stranger  on 
guard,  and  he,  on  his  part,  gazed  at  the  patriarchal  draper 
as  Humboldt  may  have  scrutinized  the  first  electric  eel  he 
saw  in  America,  M.  Guillaume  wor«  loose  black  velvet 
breeches,  pepper-and-salt  stockings,  and  square-toed  shoes 
with  silver  buckles.  His  coat,  with  square-cut  fronts,  square- 
cut  tails,  and  square-cut  collar,  clothed  his  slightly  bent 
figure  in  greenish  cloth,  finished  with  white  metal  buttons, 
tawny  from  wear.  His  gray  hair  was  so  accurately  combed 
and  flattened  over  his  yellow  pate  that  it  made  it  look  like 
a  furrowed  field.  His  little  green  eyes,  that  might  have  been 
pierced  with  a  gimlet,  flashed  beneath  arches  faintly  tinged 
with  red  in  the  place  of  eyebrows.  Anxieties  had  wrinkled 
his  forehead  with  as  many  horizontal  lines  as  there  were 
creases  in  his  coat.     This  colorless  face  expressed  patience, 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  7 

commercial  shrewdness,  and  the  sort  of  wily  cupidity  which 
is  needful  in  business.  At  that  time  these  old  families 
were  less  rare  than  they  are  now,  in  which  the  characteristic 
habits  and  costume  of  their  calling,  surviving  in  the  midst 
of  more  recent  civilization,  were  preserved  as  cherished  tra- 
ditions, like  the  antediluvian  remains  found  by  Cuvier  in 
the  quarries. 

The  head  of  the  Guillaume  family  was  a  notable  upholder 
of  ancient  practices ;  he  might  be  heard  to  regret  the  Provost 
of  Merchants,  and  never  did  he  mention  a  decision  of  the 
Tribunal  of  Commerce  without  calling  it  the  Sentence  of  the 
Consuls.  Up  and  dressed  the  first  of  the  household,  in 
obedience,  no  doubt,  to  these  old  customs,  he  stood  sternly 
awaiting  the  appearance  of  his  three  assistants,  ready  to 
scold  them  in  case  they  were  late.  These  young  disciples 
of  Mercury  knew  nothing  more  terrible  than  the  wordless 
assiduity  with  which  the  master  scrutinized  their  faces  and 
their  movements  on  Monday  in  search  of  evidence  or  traces 
of  their  pranks.  But  at  this  moment  the  old  clothier  paid 
no  heed  to  his  apprentices ;  he  was  absorbed  in  trying  to 
divine  the  motive  of  the  anxious  looks  which  the  young  man 
in  silk  stockings  and  a  cloak  cast  alternately  at  his  signboard 
and  into  the  depths  of  his  shop.  The  daylight  was  now 
brighter,  and  enabled  the  stranger  to  discern  the  cashier's 
corner  inclosed  by  a  railing  and  screened  by  old  green  silk 
curtains,  where  were  kept  the  immense  ledgers,  the  silent 
oracles  of  the  house.  The  too  inquisitive  gazer  seemed  to 
covet  this  little  nook,  and  to  be  taking  the  plan  of  a  dining- 
room  at  one  side,  lighted  by  a  skylight,  whence  the  family 
at  meals  could  easily  see  the  smallest  incident  that  might 
occur  at  the  shop-door.  So  much  affection  for  his  dwelling 
seemed  suspicious  to  a  trader  who  had  lived  long  enough 
to  remember  the  law  of  maximum  prices ;  M.  Guillaume  natu- 
rally thought  that  this  sinister  personage  had  an  eye  to  the 
till  of  the  Cat  and  Racket.  After  quietly  observing  the  mute 
duel  which  was  going  on  between  his  master  and  the  stranger, 
the  eldest  of  the  apprentices,  having  seen  that  the  young  man 
was  stealthily  watching  the  windows  of  the  third  floor, 
ventured  to  place  himself  on  the  stone  flag  where  M.  Guil- 


S  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

laume  was  standing.  He  took  two  steps  out  into  the  street, 
raised  his  head,  and  fancied  that  he  caught  sight  of  Mile. 
Augustine  Guillaume  in  hasty  retreat.  The  draper,  an- 
noyed by  his  assistant's  perspicacity,  shot  a  side  glance  at 
him;  but  the  draper  and  his  amorous  apprentice  were  sud- 
denly  relieved  from  the  fears  which  the  young  man's  presence 
had  excited  in  their  minds.  He  hailed  a  hackney  cab  on 
its  way  to  a  neighboring  stand,  and  jumped  into  it  with  an 
air  of  affected  indifference.  This  departure  was  a  balm  to 
the  hearts  of  the  other  two  lads,  who  had  been  somewhat 
uneasy  as  to  meeting  the  victim  of  their  practical  joke. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  what  ails  you  that  you  are  standing 
there  with  your  arms  folded.'*"  said  M.  Guillaume  to  his 
three  neophytes.  "  In  former  days,  bless  you,  when  I  was 
in  Master  Chevrel's  service,  I  should  have  overhauled  more 
than  two  pieces  of  cloth  by  this  time." 

"  Then  it  was  daylight  earlier,"  said  the  second  assistant, 
whose  duty  this  was. 

The  old  shopkeeper  could  not  help  smiling.  Though  two 
of  these  young  fellows,  who  were  confided  to  his  care  by 
their  fathers,  rich  manufacturers  at  Louviers  and  at  Sedan, 
had  only  to  ask  and  to  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs  the 
day  when  they  were  old  enough  to  settle  in  life,  Guillaume 
regarded  it  as  his  duty  to  keep  them  under  the  rod  of  an 
old-world  despotism,  unknown  nowadays  in  the  showy  mod- 
em shops,  where  the  apprentices  expect  to  be  rich  men  at 
thirty.  He  made  them  work  like  negroes.  These  three 
assistants  were  equal  to  a  business  which  would  harry  ten 
such  clerks  as  those  whose  sybaritical  tastes  now  swell  the 
columns  of  the  budget.  Not  a  sound  disturbed  the  peace 
of  this  solemn  house,  where  the  hinges  were  always  oiled, 
and  where  the  meanest  article  of  furniture  showed  the  re- 
spectable cleanliness  which  reveals  strict  order  and  economy. 
The  most  waggish  of  the  three  youths  often  amused  himself 
by  writing  the  date  of  its  first  appearance  on  the  Gruyere 
cheese  which  was  left  to  their  tender  mercies  at  breakfast, 
and  which  it  was  their  pleasure  to  leave  untouched.  This 
bit  of  mischief,  and  a  few  others  of  the  same  stamp,  would 
sometimes   bring   a  smile   on   the   face   of  the  younger   of 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  9 

Guillaume's  two  daughters,  the  pretty  maiden  who  has  just 
now  appeared  to  the  bewitched  man  in  the  street. 

Though  each  of  the  apprentices,  even  the  eldest,  paid  a 
round  sum  for  his  board,  not  one  of  them  would  have  been 
bold  enough  to  remain  at  the  master's  table  when  dessert 
was  served.  When  Mme.  Guillaume  talked  of  dressing  the 
salad,  the  hapless  youths  trembled  as  they  thought  of  the 
thrift  with  which  her  prudent  hand  dispensed  the  oil.  They 
could  never  think  of  spending  a  night  away  from  the  house 
without  having  given,  long  before,  a  plausible  reason  for 
such  an  irregularity.  Every  Sunday,  each  in  his  turn,  two 
of  them  accompanied  the  Guillaume  family  to  Mass  at  Saint- 
Leu,  and  to  vespers.  Miles.  Virginie  and  Augustine,  simply 
attired  in  cotton  print,  each  took  the  arm  of  an  apprentice 
and  walked  in  front,  under  the  piercing  eye  of  their  mother, 
who  closed  the  little  family  procession  with  her  husband, 
accustomed  by  her  to  carry  two  large  prayer-books,  bound 
in  black  morocco.  The  second  apprentice  received  no  salary. 
As  for  the  eldest,  whose  twelve  years  of  perseverance  and 
discretion  had  initiated  him  into  the  secrets  of  the  house,  he 
was  paid  eight  hundred  francs  a  year  as  the  reward  of  his 
labors.  On  certain  family  festivals  he  received  as  a  gratuity 
some  little  gift,  to  which  Mme.  Guillaume's  dry  and  wrinkled 
hand  alone  gave  value — netted  purses,  which  she  took  care 
to  stuff  with  cotton  wool,  to  show  off  the  fancy  stitches,  braces 
of  the  strongest  make,  or  heavy  silk  stockings.  Sometimes, 
but  rarely,  this  prime  minister  was  admitted  to  share  the 
pleasures  of  the  family  when  they  went  into  the  country,  or 
when,  after  waiting  for  months,  they  made  up  their  mind  to 
exert  the  right  acquired  by  taking  a  box  at  the  theater  to 
command  a  piece  which  Paris  had  already  forgotten. 

As  to  the  other  assistants,  the  barrier  of  respect  which 
formerly  divided  a  master  draper  from  his  apprentices  was 
so  firmly  established  between  them  and  the  old  shopkeeper, 
that  they  would  have  been  more  likely  to  steal  a  piece  of 
cloth  than  to  infringe  this  time-honored  etiquette.  Such 
reserve  may  now  appear  ridiculous ;  but  these  old  houses 
were  a  school  of  honesty  and  sound  morals.  The  masters 
adopted   their   apprentices.     The   young   man's    linen   was 


10  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

cared  for,  mended,  and  often  replaced  by  the  mistress  of 
the  house.  If  an  apprentice  fell  ill,  he  was  the  object  of  truly 
maternal  attention.  In  a  case  of  danger  the  master  lavished 
his  money  in  calling  in  the  most  celebrated  physicians,  for 
he  was  not  answerable  to  their  parents  merely  for  the  good 
conduct  and  training  of  the  lads.  If  one  of  them,  whose 
character  was  unimpeachable,  suffered  misfortune,  these  old 
tradesmen  knew  how  to  value  the  intelligence  he  had  dis- 
played, and  they  did  not  hesitate  to  intrust  the  happiness 
of  their  daughters  to  men  whom  they  had  long  trusted  with 
their  fortunes.  Guillaume  was  one  of  these  men  of  the  old 
school,  and  if  he  had  their  ridiculous  side,  he  had  all  their 
good  qualities ;  and  Joseph  Lebas,  the  chief  assistant,  an 
orphan  without  any  fortune,  was  in  his  mind  destined  to  be 
the  husband  of  Virginie,  his  elder  daughter.  But  Joseph 
did  not  share  the  symmetrical  ideas  of  his  master,  who  would 
not  for  an  empire  have  given  his  second  daughter  in  marriage 
before  the  elder.  The  unhappy  assistant  felt  that  his  heart 
was  wholly  given  to  Mile.  Augustine,  the  younger.  In  order 
to  justify  this  passion,  which  had  grown  up  in  secret,  it  is 
necessary  to  inquire  a  little  further  into  the  springs  of  the 
absolute  government  which  ruled  the  old  cloth-merchant's 
household. 

Guillaume  had  two  daughters.  The  elder.  Mile.  Virginie, 
was  the  very  image  of  her  mother.  Mme.  Guillaume,  daugh- 
ter of  the  Sieur  Chevrel,  sat  so  upright  in  the  stool  behind 
her  desk,  that  more  than  once  she  had  heard  some  wag  bet 
that  she  was  a  stuffed  figure.  Her  long,  thin  face  betrayed 
exaggerated  piety.  Devoid  of  attractions  or  of  amiable 
manners,  Mme.  Guillaume  commonl}^  decorated  her  head — 
that  of  a  woman  near  on  sixty — with  a  cap  of  a  particular 
and  unvarying  shape,  with  long  lappets,  like  that  of  a  widow. 
In  all  the  neighborhood  she  was  known  as  the  "  portress 
nun."  Her  speech  was  curt  and  her  movements  had  the 
stiff  precision  of  a  semaphore.  Her  eye,  with  a  gleam  in 
it  like  a  cat's,  seemed  to  spite  the  world  because  she  was  so 
ugly.  Mile.  Virginie,  brought  up,  like  her  younger  sister, 
under  the  domestic  rule  of  her  mother,  had  reached  the  age 
of  eight-and-twenty.     Youth  mitigated  the  graceless  effect 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  11 

which  her  likeness  to  her  mother  sometimes  gave  to  her 
features,  but  maternal  austerity  had  endowed  her  with  two 
great  qualities  which  made  up  for  everything.  She  was 
patient  and  gentle.  Mile.  Augustine,  who  was  but  just 
eighteen,  was  not  like  either  her  father  or  her  mother.  She 
was  one  of  those  daughters  whose  total  absence  of  any  phys- 
ical affinity  with  their  parents  makes  one  believe  in  the  adage: 
God  gives  children.  Augustine  was  little,  or,  to  describe 
her  more  truly,  delicately  made.  Full  of  gracious  candor, 
a  man  of  the  world  could  have  found  no  fault  in  the  charming 
girl  beyond  a  certain  meanness  of  gesture  or  vulgarity  of 
attitude,  and  sometimes  a  want  of  ease.  Her  silent  and 
placid  face  was  full  of  the  transient  melancholy  which  comes 
over  all  young  girls  who  are  too  weak  to  dare  to  resist 
their  mother's  will. 

The  two  sisters,  always  plainly  dressed,  could  not  gratify 
the  innate  vanity  of  womanhood  but  by  a  luxury  of  cleanli- 
ness which  became  them  wonderfully,  and  made  them  har- 
monize with  the  polished  counters  and  the  shining  shelves, 
on  which  the  old  man-servant  never  left  a  speck  of  dust, 
and  with  the  old-world  simplicity  of  all  they  saw  about  them. 
As  their  style  of  living  compelled  them  to  find  the  elements 
of  happiness  in  persistent  work,  Augustine  and  Virginie  had 
hitherto  always  satisfied  their  mother,  who  secretly  prided 
herself  on  the  perfect  characters  of  her  two  daughters.  It  is 
easy  to  imagine  the  results  of  the  training  they  had  received. 
Brought  up  to  a  commercial  life,  accustomed  to  hear  nothing 
but  dreary  arguments  and  calculations  about  trade,  having 
studied  nothing  but  grammar,  bookkeeping,  a  little  Bible- 
history,  and  the  history  of  France  in  Le  Ragois,  and  never 
reading  any  book  but  those  their  mother  would  sanction,  their 
ideas  had  not  acquired  much  scope.  They  knew  perfectly 
how  to  keep  house;  they  were  familiar  with  the  prices  of 
things ;  they  understood  the  difficulty  of  amassing  money ; 
they  were  economical,  and  had  a  great  respect  for  the  qual- 
ities that  make  a  man  of  business.  Although  their  father 
was  rich,  they  were  as  skilled  in  darning  as  in  embroidery ; 
their  mother  often  talked  of  having  them  taught  to  cook, 
so  that  they  might  know  how  to  order  a  dinner  and  scold 


12  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

a  cook  with  due  knowledge.  They  knew  nothing  of  the 
pleasures  of  the  world;  and,  seeing  how  their  parents  spent 
their  exemplary  lives,  they  very  rarely  suffered  their  eyes 
to  wander  beyond  the  walls  of  their  hereditary  home,  which 
to  their  mother  was  the  whole  universe.  The  meetings  to 
which  family  anniversaries  gave  rise  filled  in  the  future  of 
earthly  joy  to  them. 

When  the  great  drawing-room  on  the  second  floor  was  to 
be  prepared  to  receive  company — Mme.  Roquin,  a  Demoiselle 
Chevrel,  fifteen  months  younger  than  her  cousin,  and  be- 
decked with  diamonds ;  young  Rabourdin,  employed  in  the 
Finance  Office;  M.  Cesar  Birotteau,  the  rich  perfumer,  and 
his  wife,  known  as  Mme.  Cesar;  M.  Camusot,  the  richest  silk 
mercer  in  the  Rue  des  Bourdonnais;  with  his  father^n-law,  M. 
Cardot,  two  or  three  old  bankers,  and  some  immaculate  ladies 
— the  arrangements,  made  necessary  by  the  way  in  which 
everything  was  packed  away — the  plate,  the  Dresden  china, 
the  candlesticks,  and  the  glass — made  a  variety  in  the  monot- 
onous lives  of  the  three  women,  who  came  and  went  and  exerted 
themselves  as  nuns  would  to  receive  their  bishop.  Then,  in 
the  evening,  when  all  three  were  tired  out  with  having  wiped, 
rubbed,  unpacked,  and  arranged  all  the  gauds  of  the  festival, 
as  the  girls  helped  their  mother  to  undress,  Mme.  Guillaume 
would  say  to  them,  "  Children,  we  have  done  nothing  to-day." 

When,  on  very  great  occasions,  "  the  portress  nun  "  al- 
lowed dancing,  restricting  the  games  of  boston,  whist,  and 
backgammon  within  the  limits  of  her  bedroom,  such  a  con- 
cession was  accounted  as  the  most  unhoped  felicity,  and 
made  them  happier  than  going  to  the  great  balls,  to  two 
or  three  of  which  Guillaume  would  take  the  girls  at  the  time 
of  the  Carnival. 

And  once  a  year  the  worthy  draper  gave  an  entertainment, 
when  he  spared  no  expense.  However  rich  and  fashionable 
the  persons  invited  might  be,  they  were  careful  not  to  be 
absent;  for  the  most  important  houses  on  the  Exchange  had 
recourse  to  the  immense  credit,  the  fortune,  or  the  time- 
honored  experience  of  M.  Guillaume.  Still,  the  excellent 
merchant's  two  daughters  did  not  benefit  as  much  as  might 
be  supposed  by  the  lessons  the  world  has  to  offer  to  young 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  13 

spirits.  At  these  parties,  which  were  indeed  set  down  in 
the  ledger  to  the  credit  of  the  house,  they  wore  dresses  the 
shabbiness  of  which  made  them  blush.  Their  style  of  dancing 
was  not  in  any  way  remarkable,  and  their  mother's  sur- 
veillance did  not  allow  of  their  holding  any  conversation 
with  their  partners  beyond  Yes  and  No.  Also,  the  law  of 
the  old  sign  of  the  Cat  and  Racket  commanded  that  they 
should  be  home  by  eleven  o'clock,  the  hour  when  balls  and 
fetes  begin  to  be  lively.  Thus  their  pleasures,  which  seemed 
to  conform  very  fairly  to  their  father's  position,  were  often 
made  insipid  by  circumstances  which  were  part  of  the  family 
habits  and  principles. 

As  to  their  usual  life,  one  remark  will  sufficiently  paint  it. 
Mme.  Guillaume  required  her  daughters  to  be  dressed  very 
early  in  the  morning,  to  come  down  every  day  at  the  same 
hour,  and  she  ordered  their  employments  with  monastic 
regularity.  Augustine,  however,  had  been  gifted  by  chance 
with  a  spirit  lofty  enough  to  feel  the  emptiness  of  such  a  life. 
Her  blue  eyes  would  sometimes  be  raised  as  if  to  pierce  the 
depths  of  that  gloomy  staircase  and  those  damp  store-rooms. 
After  sounding  the  profound  cloistral  silence,  she  seemed  to 
be  listening  to  remote,  inarticulate  revelations  of  the  life  of 
passion,  which  accounts  feelings  as  of  higher  value  than 
things.  And  at  such  moments  her  cheek  would  flush,  her 
idle  hands  would  lay  the  muslin  sewing  on  the  polished  oak 
counter,  and  presently  her  mother  would  say  in  a  voice,  of 
which  even  the  softest  tones  were  sour,  "  Augustine,  my 
treasure,  what  are  you  thinking  about?  "  It  is  possible 
that  two  romances  discovered  by  Augustine  in  the  cupboard 
of  a  cook  Mme.  Guillaume  had  lately  discharged — Hippolyte 
Comte  de  Douglas  and  Le  Comte  de  Commmges — may  have 
contributed  to  develop  the  ideas  of  the  young  girl,  who  had 
devoured  them  in  secret,  during  the  long  nights  of  the 
past  winter. 

And  so  Augustine's  expression  of  vague  longing,  her  gentle 
voice,  her  jasmine  skin,  and  her  blue  eyes  had  lighted  in  poor 
Lebas's  soul  a  flame  as  ardent  as  it  was  reverent.  From 
an  easily  understood  caprice,  Augustine  felt  no  affection  for 
the   orphan;  perhaps   because   she  did   not  know   that  he 


14  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

loved  her.  On  the  other  hand,  the  senior  apprentice,  with 
his  long  legs,  his  chestnut  hair,  his  big  hands  and  powerful 
frame,  had  found  a  secret  admirer  in  Mile.  Virginie,  who,  in 
spite  of  her  dower  of  fifty  thousand  crowns,  had  as  yet  no 
suitor.  Nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  these  two  pas- 
sions at  cross-purposes,  born  in  the  silence  of  the  dingy  shop, 
as  violets  bloom  in  the  depths  of  a  wood.  The  mute  and 
constant  looks  which  made  the  young  people's  eyes  meet  by 
sheer  need  of  change  in  the  midst  of  persistent  work  and 
cloistered  peace,  were  sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  give  rise  to 
feelings  of  love.  The  habit  of  seeing  always  the  same  face 
leads  insensibly  to  our  reading  there  the  qualities  of  the 
soul,  and  at  last  effaces  all  its  defects. 

"  At  the  pace  at  which  that  man  goes,  our  girls  will 
soon  have  to  go  on  their  knees  to  a  suitor!"  said  M. 
Guillaume  to  himself,  as  he  read  the  first  decree  by  which 
Napoleon  drew  in  advance  on  the  conscript  classes. 

From  that  day  the  old  merchant,  grieved  at  seeing  his 
eldest  daughter  fade,  remembered  how  he  had  married  Mile. 
Chevrel  under  much  the  same  circumstances  as  those  of 
Joseph  Lebas  and  Virginie.  A  good  bit  of  business,  to  marry 
off  his  daughter,  and  discharge  a  sacred  debt  by  repaying 
to  an  orphan  the  benefit  he  had  formerly  received  from  his 
predecessor  under  similar  conditions !  Joseph  Lebas,  who 
was  now  three-and-thirty,  was  aware  of  the  obstacle  which  a 
difference  of  fifteen  years  placed  between  Augustine  and 
himself.  Being  also  too  clear-sighted  not  to  understand  M. 
Guillaume's  purpose,  he  knew  his  inexorable  principles  well 
enough  to  feel  sure  that  the  second  would  never  marry  before 
the  elder.  So  the  hapless  assistant,  whose  heart  was  as 
warm  as  his  legs  were  long  and  his  chest  deep,  suffered  in 
silence. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  In  the  tiny  republic  which, 
in  the  heart  of  the  Rue  Saint-Denis,  was  not  unlike  a 
dependency  of  La  Trappe.  But  to  give  a  full  account  of 
events  as  well  as  of  feelings,  it  is  needful  to  go  back  to 
some  months  before  the  scene  with  which  this  story  opens. 
At  dusk  one  evening,  a  young  man  passing  the  darkened 
shop  of  the  Cat  and  Racket  had  paused  for  a  moment  to 


THE  CAT  AND  KACKET  15 

gaze  at  a  picture  which  might  have  arrested  every  painter 
in  the  world.  The  shop  was  not  yet  lighted,  and  was  as  a 
dark  cave  beyond  which  the  dining-room  was  visible.  A 
hanging  lamp  shed  the  yellow  light  which  lends  such  charm 
to  pictures  of  the  Dutch  school.  The  white  linen,  the  silver, 
the  cut  glass,  were  brilliant  accessories,  and  made  more 
picturesque  by  strong  contrasts  of  light  and  shade.  The 
figures  of  the  head  of  the  family  and  his  wife,  the  faces  of 
the  apprentices,  and  the  pure  form  of  Augustine,  near  whom 
a  fat  chubby-cheeked  maid  was  standing,  composed  so  strange 
a  group ;  the  heads  were  so  singular,  and  every  face  had  so 
candid  an  expression ;  it  was  so  easy  to  read  the  peace,  the 
silence,  the  modest  way  of  life  in  this  family,  that  to  an 
artist  accustomed  to  render  nature,  there  was  something 
hopeless  in  any  attempt  to  depict  this  scene,  come  upon 
by  chance.  The  stranger  was  a  young  painter,  who,  seven 
years  before,  had  gained  the  first  prize  for  painting.  He 
had  now  just  come  back  from  Rome.  His  soul,  full-fed  with 
poetry ;  his  eyes,  satiated  with  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo, 
thirsted  for  real  nature  after  long  dwelling  in  the  pompous 
land  where  art  has  everywhere  left  something  grandiose. 
Right  or  wrong,  this  was  his  personal  feeling.  His  heart, 
which  had  long  been  a  prey  to  the  fire  of  Italian  passion, 
craved  one  of  those  modest  and  meditative  maidens  whom  in 
Rome  he  had  unfortunately  seen  only  in  painting.  From 
the  enthusiasm  produced  in  his  excited  fancy  by  the  living 
picture  before  him,  he  naturally  passed  to  a  profound  ad- 
miration for  the  principal  figure;  Augustine  seemed  to  be 
pensive,  and  did  not  eat;  by  the  arrangement  of  the  lamp 
the  light  fell  full  on  her  face,  and  her  bust  seemed  to  move 
in  a  circle  of  fire,  which  threw  up  the  shape  of  her  head 
and  illuminated  it  with  almost  supernatural  effect.  The 
artist  involuntarily  compared  her  to  an  exiled  angel  dream- 
ing of  heaven.  An  almost  unknown  emotion,  a  limpid,  seeth- 
ing love  flooded  his  heart.  After  remaining  a  minute,  over- 
whelmed by  the  weight  of  his  ideas,  he  tore  himself  from  his 
bliss,  went  home,  ate  nothing,  and  could  not  sleep. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  his  studio,  and  did  not  come 
out  of  it  till  he  had  placed  on  canvas  the  magic  of  the  scene 


16  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

of  which  the  memory  had,  in  a  sense,  made  him  a  devotee; 
his  happiness  was  incomplete  till  he  should  possess  a  faithful 
portrait  of  his  idol.  He  went  many  times  past  the  house 
of  the  Cat  and  Racket;  he  even  ventured  in  once  or  twice, 
under  a  disguise,  to  get  a  closer  view  of  the  bewitching 
creature  that  Mme.  Guillaum*^  covered  with  her  wing.  For 
eight  whole  months,  devoted  to  his  love  and  to  his  brush, 
he  was  lost  to  the  sight  of  his  most  intimate  friends,  for- 
getting the  world,  the  theater,  poetry,  music,  and  all  his 
dearest  habits.  One  morning  Girodet  broke  through  all  the 
barriers  with  which  artists  are  familiar,  and  which  they 
know  how  to  evade,  went  into  his  room,  and  woke  him  by 
asking,  "  What  are  you  going  to  send  to  the  Salon  ?  *'  The 
artist  grasped  his  friend's  hand,  dragged  him  off  to  the 
studio,  uncovered  a  small  easel  picture  and  a  portrait.  After 
a  long  and  eager  study  of  the  two  masterpieces,  Girodet 
threw  himself  on  his  comrade's  neck  and  hugged  him,  without 
speaking  a  word.  His  feelings  could  only  be  expressed  as  he 
felt  them — soul  to  soul. 

"  You  are  in  love .''  "  said  Girodet. 

They  both  knew  that  the  finest  portraits  by  Titian,  Ra- 
phael, and  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  were  the  outcome  of  the 
enthusiastic  sentiments  by  which,  indeed,  under  various  con- 
ditions, every  masterpiece  is  engendered.  The  artist  only 
bent  his  head  in  reply. 

"  How  happy  are  you  to  be  able  to  be  in  love,  here,  after 
coming  back  from  Italy !  But  I  do  not  advise  you  to  send 
such  works  as  these  to  the  Salon,"  the  great  painter  went  on. 
"  You  see,  these  two  works  will  not  be  appreciated.  Such 
true  coloring,  such  prodigious  work,  cannot  yet  be  under- 
stood; the  public  is  not  accustomed  to  such  depths.  The 
pictures  we  paint,  my  dear  fellow,  are  mere  screens.  We 
should  do  better  to  turn  rhymes,  and  translate  the  antique 
poets!  There  is  more  glory  to  be  looked  for  there  than 
from  our  luckless  canvases !  " 

Notwithstanding  this  charitable  advice,  the  two  pictures 
were  exhibited.  The  Interior  made  a  revolution  in  painting. 
It  gave  birth  to  the  pictures  of  genre  which  pour  into  all 
our  exhibitions  in  such  prodigious  quantity  that  they  might 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  17 

be  supposed  to  be  produced  by  machinery.  As  to  the  por- 
trait, few  artists  have  forgotten  that  lifelike  work;  and 
the  public,  which  as  a  body  is  sometimes  discerning,  awarded 
it  the  crown  which  Girodet  himself  had  hung  over  it.  The 
two  pictures  were  surrounded  by  a  vast  throng.  They  fought 
for  places,  as  women  say.  Speculators  and  moneyed  men 
would  have  covered  the  canvas  with  double  Napoleons,  but 
the  artist  obstinately  refused  to  sell  or  to  make  replicas. 
An  enormous  sum  was  offered  him  for  the  right  of  engraving 
them,  and  the  print-sellers  were  not  more  favored  than  the 
amateurs. 

Though  these  incidents  occupied  the  world,  they  were  not 
of  a  nature  to  penetrate  the  recesses  of  the  monastic  solitude 
in  the  Rue  Saint-Denis.  However,  when  paying  a  visit  to 
Mme.  Guillaume,  the  notary's  wife  spoke  of  the  exhibition 
before  Augustine,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond,  and  explained 
its  purpose.  Mme.  Roquin's  gossip  naturally  inspired 
Augustine  with  a  wish  to  see  the  pictures,  and  with  courage 
enough  to  ask  her  cousin  secretly  to  take  her  to  the  Louvre. 
Her  cousin  succeeded  in  the  negotiations  she  opened  with 
Mme.  Guillaume  for  permission  to  release  the  young  girl  for 
two  hours  from  her  dull  labors.  Augustine  was  thus  able  to 
make  her  way  through  the  crowd  to  see  the  crowned  work. 
A  fit  of  trembling  shook  her  like  an  aspen  leaf  as  she 
recognized  herself.  She  was  terrified,  and  looked  about  her 
to  find  Mme.  Roquin,  from  whom  she  had  been  separated 
by  a  tide  of  people.  At  that  moment  her  frightened  eyes  fell 
on  the  impassioned  face  of  the  young  painter.  She  at  once 
recalled  the  figure  of  a  loiterer  whom,  being  curious,  she 
had  frequently  observed,  believing  him  to  be  a  new  neighbor. 

"  You  see  how  love  has  inspired  me,"  said  the  artist  in 
the  timid  creature's  ear,  and  she  stood  in  dismay  at  the 
words. 

She  found  supernatural  courage  to  enable  her  to  push 
through  the  crowd  and  join  her  cousin,  who  was  still  strug- 
gling with  the  mass  of  people  that  hindered  her  from  getting 
to   the   picture. 

"  You  will  be  stifled !  "  cried  Augustine.     "  Let  us  go." 

But  there  are  moments,  at  the  Salon,  when  two  women 


18  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

are  not  always  free  to  direct  their  steps  through  the  galleries. 
By  the  irregular  course  to  which  they  were  compelled  b^'  the 
press,  Mile.  Guillaume  and  her  cousin  were  pushed  to  within 
a  few  steps  of  the  second  picture.  Chance  thus  brought  them, 
both  together,  to  where  thej-  could  easily  see  the  canvas 
made  famous  by  fashion,  for  once  in  agreement  with  talent. 
Mme.  Roquin's  exclamation  of  surprise  was  lost  in  the  hub- 
bub and  buzz  of  the  crowd;  Augustine  involuntarily  shed 
tears  at  the  sight  of  this  wonderful  study.  Then,  by  an 
almost  unaccountable  impulse,  she  laid  her  finger  on  her 
lips,  as  she  perceived  quite  near  her  the  ecstatic  face  of  the 
young  painter.  The  stranger  replied  by  a  nod,  and  pointed 
to  ^Ime.  Roquin,  as  a  spoil-sport,  to  show  Augustine  that 
he  had  understood.  This  pantomime  struck  the  young  girl 
like  hot  coals  on  her  flesh;  she  felt  quite  guilty  as  she 
perceived  that  there  was  a  compact  between  herself  and  the 
artist.  The  suffocating  heat,  the  dazzling  sight  of  beautiful 
dresses,  the  bewilderment  produced  in  Augustine's  brain  by  the 
truth  of  coloring,  the  multitude  of  living  or  painted  figures, 
the  profusion  of  gilt  frames,  gave  her  a  sense  of  intoxication 
which  doubled  her  alarms.  She  would  perhaps  have  fainted 
if  an  unknown  rapture  had  not  surged  up  in  her  heart  to 
vivify  her  whole  being,  in  spite  of  this  chaos  of  sensations. 
She  nevertheless  believed  herself  to  be  under  the  power  of 
the  Devil,  of  whose  awful  snares  she  had  been  warned  by  the 
thundering  words  of  preachers.  This  moment  was  to  her 
like  a  moment  of  madness.  She  found  herself  accompanied 
to  her  cousin's  carriage  by  the  young  man,  radiant  with  joy 
and  love.  Augustine,  a  prey  to  an  agitation  new  to  her 
experience,  an  intoxication  which  seemed  to  abandon  her 
to  nature,  listened  to  the  eloquent  voice  of  her  heart,  and 
looked  again  and  again  at  the  young  painter,  betraying  the 
emotion  that  came  over  her.  Never  had  the  bright  rose  of 
her  cheeks  shown  in  stronger  contrast  with  the  whiteness  of 
her  skin.  The  artist  saw  her  beauty  in  all  its  bloom,  her 
maiden  modesty  in  all  its  glory.  She  herself  felt  a  sort  of 
rapture  mingled  with  terror  at  thinking  that  her  presence 
had  brought  happiness  to  him  whose  name  was  on  every  lip, 
and  whose  talent  lent  immortality  to  transient  scenes.     She 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  19 

was  loved!  It  was  impossible  to  doubt  it.  When  she  no 
longer  saw  the  artist,  these  simple  words  still  echoed  in  her 
ear,  "  You  see  how  love  has  inspired  me !  "  And  the  throbs 
of  her  heart,  as  they  grew  deeper,  seemed  a  pain,  her  heated 
blood  revealed  so  many  unknown  forces  in  her  being.  She 
affected  a  severe  headache  to  avoid  replying  to  her  cousin's 
questions  concerning  the  pictures ;  but  on  their  return  Mme. 
Roquin  could  not  forbear  from  speaking  to  Mme.  Guillaume 
of  the  fame  that  had  fallen  on  the  house  of  the  Cat  and 
Racket,  and  Augustine  quaked  in  every  limb  as  she  heard 
her  mother  say  that  she  should  go  to  the  Salon  to  see  her 
house  there.  The  young  girl  again  declared  herself  suffering, 
and  obtained  leave  to  go  to  bed. 

"  That  is  what  comes  of  sight-seeing,"  exclaimed  M.  Guil- 
laume— "  a  headache.  And  is  it  so  very  amusing  to  see  in 
a  picture  what  you  can  see  any  day  in  your  own  street  .f* 
Don't  talk  to  me  of  your  artists !  Like  writers,  they  are  a 
starveling  crew.  Why  the  devil  need  they  choose  my  house 
to  flout  it  in  their  pictures  ?  " 

"  It  may  help  to  sell  a  few  ells  more  of  cloth,"  said  Joseph 
Lebas. 

This  remark  did  not  protect  art  and  thought  from  being 
condemned  once  again  before  the  judgment-seat  of  trade. 
As  may  be  supposed,  these  speeches  did  not  infuse  much  hope 
into  Augustine,  who,  during  the  night,  gave  herself  up  to 
the  first  meditations  of  love.  The  events  of  the  day  were 
like  a  dream,  which  it  was  joy  to  recall  to  her  mind.  She 
was  initiated  into  the  fears,  the  hopes,  the  remorse,  all  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  feeling  which  could  not  fail  to  toss  a  heart 
so  simple  and  so  timid  as  hers.  What  a  void  she  perceived 
in  this  gloomy  house!  What  a  treasure  she  found  in  her 
soul !  To  be  the  wife  of  a  genius,  to  share  his  glory !  What 
ravages  must  such  a  vision  make  in  the  heart  of  a  girl 
brought  up  among  such  a  family !  What  hopes  must  it  raise 
in  a  young  creature  who,  in  the  midst  of  sordid  elements,  had 
pined  for  a  life  of  elegance!  A  sunbeam  had  fallen  into 
the  prison.  Augustine  was  suddenly  in  love.  So  many  of 
her  feelings  were  soothed  that  she  succumbed  without  re- 
flection.    At  eighteen  does  not  love  hold  a  prism  between 


20  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

the  world  and  the  eyes  of  a  young  girl?  She  was  incapable 
of  suspecting  the  hard  facts  which  result  from  the  union 
of  a  loving  woman  with  a  man  of  imagination,  and  she  be- 
lieved herself  called  to  make  him  happy,  not  seeing  any  dis- 
parity between  herself  and  him.  To  her  the  future  would  be 
as  the  present.  When,  next  day,  her  father  and  mother  re- 
turned from  the  Salon,  their  dejected  faces  proclaimed  some 
disappointment.  In  the  first  place,  the  painter  had  removed 
the  two  pictures ;  and  then  Mme.  Guillaume  had  lost  her 
cashmere  shawl.  But  the  news  that  the  pictures  had  dis- 
appeared from  the  walls  since  her  visit  revealed  to  Augustine 
a  delicacy  of  sentiment  which  a  woman  can  always  appreciate, 
even  by  instinct. 

On  the  morning  when,  on  his  way  home  from  a  ball, 
Theodore  de  Sommervieux — for  this  was  the  name  which 
fame  had  stamped  on  Augustine's  heart — had  been  squirted 
on  by  the  apprentices  while  awaiting  the  appearance  of  his 
artless  little  friend,  who  certainly  did  not  know  that  he  was 
there ;  the  lovers  had  seen  each  other  for  the  fourth  time  only 
since  their  meeting  at  the  Salon.  The  difficulties  which  the 
rule  of  the  house  placed  in  the  way  of  the  painter's  ardent 
nature  gave  added  violence  to  his  passion  for  Augustine. 

How  could  he  get  near  to  a  young  girl  seated  in  a  count- 
ing-house between  two  such  women  as  Mile.  Virginie  and 
Mme.  Guillaume.''  How  could  he  correspond  with  her  when 
her  mother  never  left  her  side.''  Ingenious,  as  lovers  are, 
to  imagine  woes,  Theodore  saw  a  rival  in  one  of  the  assistants, 
to  whose  interests  he  supposed  the  others  to  be  devoted.  If 
he  should  evade  these  sons  of  Argus,  he  would  yet  be  wrecked 
under  the  stem  eyes  of  the  old  draper  or  of  Mme.  Guillaume. 
The  very  vehemence  of  his  passion  hindered  the  j'oung  painter 
from  hitting  on  the  ingenious  expedients  which,  in  prisoners 
and  in  lovers,  seem  to  be  the  last  effort  of  intelligence  spurred 
by  a  wild  craving  for  liberty,  or  by  the  fire  of  love.  Theo- 
dore wandered  about  the  neighborhood  with  the  restlessness 
of  a  madman,  as  though  movement  might  inspire  him  with 
some  device.  After  racking  his  imagination,  it  occurred  to 
him  to  bribe  the  blowsy  waiting-maid  with  gold.  Thus  a  few 
notes  were  exchanged  at  long  intervals  during  the  fortnight 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  U 

following  the  ill-starred  morning  when  M.  Guillaume  and 
Theodore  had  so  scrutinized  one  another.  At  the  present 
moment  the  young  couple  had  agreed  to  see  each  other  at  a 
certain  hour  of  the  day,  and  on  Sunday,  at  Saint-Leu,  during 
Mass  and  vespers.  Augustine  had  sent  her  dear  Theodore  a 
list  of  the  relations  and  friends  of  the  family,  to  whom  the 
young  painter  tried  to  get  access,  in  the  hope  of  interesting, 
if  it  were  possible,  in  his  love  affairs,  one  of  these  souls  ab- 
sorbed in  money  and  trade,  to  whom  a  genuine  passion 
must  appear  a  quite  monstrous  speculation,  a  thing  unheard 
of.  Nothing,  meanwhile,  was  altered  at  the  sign  of  the  Cat 
and  Racket.  If  Augustine  was  absent-minded,  if,  against 
all  obedience  to  the  domestic  code,  she  stole  up  to  her  room 
to  make  signals  by  means  of  a  jar  of  flowers,  if  she  sighed, 
if  she  were  lost  in  thought,  no  one  observed  it,  not  even  her 
mother.  This  will  cause  some  surprise  to  those  who  have 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  household,  where  an  idea  tainted 
with  poetry  would  be  in  startling  contrast  to  persons  and 
things,  where  no  one  could  venture  on  a  gesture  or  a  look 
which  would  not  be  seen  and  analyzed.  Nothing,  however, 
could  be  more  natural:  the  quiet  bark  that  navigated  the 
stormy  waters  of  the  Paris  Exchange,  under  the  flag  of  the 
Cat  and  Racket,  was  just  now  in  the  toils  of  one  of  these 
tempests  which,  returning  periodically,  might  be  termed 
equinoctial.  For  the  last  fortnight  the  five  men  forming  the 
crew,  with  Mme.  Guillaume  and  Mile.  Virginie,  had  been 
devoting  themselves  to  the  hard  labor  known  as  stock- 
taking. 

Every  bale  was  turned  over,  and  the  length  verified  to 
ascertain  the  exact  value  of  the  remnant.  The  ticket  at- 
tached to  each  parcel  was  carefully  examined  to  see  at  what 
time  the  piece  had  been  bought.  The  retail  price  was  fixed. 
M.  Guillaume,  always  on  his  feet,  his  pen  behind  his  ear, 
was  like  a  captain  commanding  the  working  of  the  ship. 
His  sharp  tones,  spoken  through  a  trap-door,  to  inquire  into 
the  depths  of  the  hold  in  the  cellar-store,  gave  utterance  to 
the  barbarous  formulas  of  trade-jargon,  which  find  expression 
only  in  cipher.  "How  much  H.N.Z. .?  »— "  All  sold."— 
"  What  is  left  of  Q.X..?  "— "  Two  ells."—"  At  what  price.?  " 


£2  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

— "  Fifty-five  three."—"  Set  down  A.  at  three,  with  all  of 
J. J.,  all  of  M.P.,  and  what  is  left  of  V.D.O."— A  hundred 
other  injunctions  equally  intelligible  were  spouted  over  the 
counters  like  verses  of  modern  poetry,  quoted  by  romantic 
.  spirits,  to  excite  each  other's  enthusiasm  for  one  of  their 
poets.  In  the  evening  Guillaume,  shut  up  with  his  assistant 
and  his  wife,  balanced  his  accounts,  carried  on  the  balance, 
wrote  to  debtors  in  arrears,  and  made  out  bills.  All  three 
were  busy  over  this  enormous  labor,  of  which  the  r-esult  could 
be  stated  on  a  sheet  of  foolscap,  proving  to  the  head  of  the 
house  that  there  was  so  much  to  the  good  in  hard  cash,  so 
much  in  goods,  so  much  in  bills  and  notes ;  that  he  did  not 
owe  a  sou ;  that  a  hundred  or  two  hundred  thousand  francs 
were  owing  to  him ;  that  the  capital  had  been  increased ;  that 
the  farmlands,  the  houses,  or  the  investments  were  extended, 
or  repaired,  or  doubled.  Whence  it  became  necessary  to 
begin  again  with  increased  ardor,  to  accumulate  more  crown- 
pieces,  without  its  ever  entering  the  brain  of  these  laborious 
ants  to  ask — "  To  what  end .''  " 

Favored  by  this  annual  turmoil,  the  happy  Augustine 
escaped  the  investigations  of  her  Argus-eyed  relations.  At 
last,  one  Saturday  evening,  the  stock-taking  was  finished. 
The  figures  of  the  sum-total  shoAved  a  row  of  Os  long  enough 
to  allow  Guillaume  for  once  to  relax  the  stern  rule  as  to 
dessert  which  reigned  throughout  the  year.  The  shrewd  old 
draper  rubbed  his  hands,  and  allowed  his  assistants  to  remain 
at  table.  The  members  of  the  crew  had  hardly  swallowed 
their  thimbleful  of  some  home-made  liqueur,  when  the  rumble 
of  a  carriage  was  heard.  The  family  party  were  going  to 
see  Cendrillon  at  the  Varietes,  while  the  two  younger  appren- 
tices each  received  a  crown  of  six  francs,  with  permission 
to  go  wherever  they  chose,  provided  they  were  in  by  mid- 
night. 

Notwithstanding  this  debauch,  the  old  cloth-merchant  was 
shaving  himself  at  six  next  morning,  put  on  his  maroon- 
colored  coat,  of  which  the  glowing  lights  afi^orded  him 
perennial  enjoyment,  fastened  a  pair  of  gold  buckles  on  the 
knee-straps  of  his  ample  satin  breeches ;  and  then,  at  about 
seven  o'clock,  while  all  were  still  sleeping  in  the  house,  he 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  23- 

made  his  way  to  the  little  office  adjoining  the  shop  on  the 
first  floor.  Daylight  came  in  through  a  window,  fortified 
by  iron  bars,  and  looking  out  on  a  small  yard  surrounded 
by  such  black  walls  that  it  was  very  like  a  well.  The  old 
merchant  opened  the  iron-lined  shutters,  which  were  so  famil- 
iar to  him,  and  threw  up  the  lower  half  of  the  sash  window. 
The  icy  air  of  the  courtyard  came  in  to  cool  the  hot  atmos- 
phere of  the  little  room,  full  of  the  odor  peculiar  to  offices. 
The  merchant  remained  standing,  his  hand  resting  on  the 
greasy  arm  of  a  large  cane  chair  lined  with  morocco,  of 
which  the  original  hue  had  disappeared ;  he  seemed  to  hesitate 
as  to  seating  himself.  He  looked  with  affection  at  the  double 
desk,  where  his  wife's  seat,  opposite  his  own,  was  fitted  into 
a  little  niche  in  the  wall.  He  contemplated  the  numbered 
boxes,  the  files,  the  implements,  the  cash  box — objects  all 
of  immemorial  origin,  and  fancied  himself  in  the  room  with 
the  shade  of  Master  Chevrel.  He  even  pulled  out  the  high 
stool  on  which  he  had  once  sat  in  the  presence  of  his  departed 
master.  This  stool,  covered  with  black  leather,  the  horse- 
hair showing  at  every  corner — as  it  had  long  done,  without, 
however,  coming  out — he  placed  with  a  shaking  hand  on 
the  very  spot  where  his  predecessor  had  put  it,  and  then, 
with  an  emotion  difficult  to  describe,  he  pulled  a  bell,  which 
rang  at  the  head  of  Joseph  Lebas's  bed.  When  this  decisive 
blow  had  been  struck,  the  old  man,  for  whom,  no  doubt, 
these  reminiscences  were  too  much,  took  up  three  or  four 
bills  of  exchange,  and  looked  at  them  without  seeing  them. 

Suddenly  Joseph  Lebas  stood  before  him. 

"  Sit  down  there,"  said  Guillaume,  pointing  to  the  stool. 

As  the  old  master  draper  had  never  yet  bid  his  assistant 
be  seated  in  his  presence,  Joseph  Lebas  was  startled. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  these  notes?  "  asked  Guillaume. 

"  They  will  never  be  paid." 

"Why?" 

«  Well,  I  heard  that  the  day  before  yesterday  Etienne  & 
Co.  had  made  their  payments  in  gold." 

"Oh,  oh!"  said  the  draper.     "Well,  one  must  be  very 

ill  to  show  one's  bile.     Let  us  speak  of  something  else. 

Joseph,  the  stock-taking  is  done." 


24  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  and  the  dividend  is  one  of  the  best  you 
have  ever  made." 

"  Do  not  use  new-fangled  words.  Say  the  profits,  Joseph. 
Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  this  result  is  partly  owing  to 
you.''  And  I  do  not  intend  to  pay  you  a  salary  any  longer. 
Mme.  Guillaume  has  suggested  to  me  to  take  you  into 
partnership. — '  Guillaume  and  Lebas  ' ;  will  not  that  make 
a  good  business  name.''  We  might  add,  '  and  Co.'  to  round 
off  the  firm's  signature." 

Tears  rose  to  the  eyes  of  Joseph  Lebas,  who  tried  to 
hide  them. 

"  Oh,  M.  Guillaume,  how  have  I  deserved  such  kindness ? 
I  only  do  my  duty.  It  was  so  much  already  that  you  should 
take  an  interest  in  a  poor  orph " 

He  was  brushing  the  cuff  of  his  left  sleeve  with  his 
right  hand,  and  dared  not  look  at  the  old  man,  who  smiled 
as  he  thought  that  this  modest  young  fellow  no  doubt  needed, 
as  he  had  needed  once  on  a  time,  some  encouragement  to 
complete  his  explanations. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Virginie's  father,  "  you  do  not  alto- 
gether deserve  this  favor,  Joseph.  You  have  not  so  much 
confidence  in  me  as  I  have  in  you.  (The  young  man  looked 
up  quickly.)  You  know  all  the  secrets  of  the  cash-box.  For 
the  last  two  years  I  have  told  you  of  almost  all  my  concerns. 
I  have  sent  you  to  travel  in  our  goods.  In  short,  I  have 
nothing  on  my  conscience  as  regards  you.  But  you — you 
have  a  soft  place,  and  you  have  never  breathed  a  word  of  it." 
Joseph  Lebas  blushed.  "  Ah,  ha !  "  cried  Guillaume,  "  so 
you  thought  you  could  deceive  an  old  fox  like  me.''  \^^len 
you  knew  that  I  had  scented  the  Lecocq  bankruptcy .''  " 

"  What,  monsieur.'* "  replied  Joseph  Lebas,  looking  at 
his  master  as  keenly  as  his  master  looked  at  him,  "  you  knew 
that  I  was  in  love.''  " 

"  I  know  everything,  you  rascal,"  said  the  worthy  and 
cunning  old  merchant,  pulling  the  assistant's  ear.  "  And  I 
forgive  you — I  did  the  same  myself." 

"  And  you  will  give  her  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes — ^with  fifty  thousand  crowns ;  and  I  will  leave  you 
as  much  by  will,  and  we  will  start  on  our  new  career  under 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  25 

the  name  of  a  new  firm.  We  will  do  good  business  yet,  my 
boy !  "  added  the  old  man,  getting  up  and  flourishing  his 
arms.  "  I  tell  you,  son-in-law,  there  is  nothing  like  trade. 
Those  who  ask  what  pleasure  is  to  be  found  in  it  are  simple- 
tons. To  be  on  the  scent  of  a  good  bargain,  to  hold  your 
own  on  'Change,  to  watch  as  anxiously  as  at  the  gaming  table 
whether  Etienne  &  Co.  will  fail  or  no,  to  see  a  regiment 
of  Guards  march  past  all  dressed  in  your  cloth,  to  trip 
your  neighbor  up — honestly,  of  course! — to  make  the  goods 
cheaper  than  others  can ;  then  to  carry  out  an  undertaking 
which  you  have  planned,  which  begins,  grows,  totters,  and 
succeeds !  to  know  the  workings  of  every  house  of  business  as 
well  as  a  minister  of  police,  so  as  never  to  make  a  mistake; 
to  hold  up  your  head  in  the  midst  of  wrecks,  to  have  friends 
by  correspondence  in  every  manufacturing  town ;  is  not  that 
a  perpetual  game,  Joseph  ?  That  is  life,  that  is !  I  shall 
die  in  that  harness,  like  old  Chevrel,  but  taking  it  easy  now, 
all  the  same." 

In  the  heat  of  his  eager  rhetoric,  old  Guillaume  had  scarcely 
looked  at  his  assistant,  who  was  weeping  copiously.  "  Why, 
Joseph,  my  poor  boy,  what  is  the  matter.-'  " 

"  Oh,  I  love  her  so !  M.  Guillaume,  that  my  heart  fails 
me;  I  believe " 

"  Well,  well,  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  touched,  "  you  are 
happier  than  you  know,  by  Gad!  For  she  loves  you.  I 
know  it." 

And  he  blinked  his  little  green  eyes  as  he  looked  at  the 
young  man. 

"  Mile.  Augustine !  Mile.  Augustine ! "  exclaimed  Joseph 
Lebas  in  his  rapture. 

He  was  about  to  rush  out  of  the  room  when  he  felt  himself 
clutched  by  a  hand  of  iron,  and  his  astonished  master  spun 
him  round  in  front  of  him  once  more. 

"  What  has  Augustine  to  do  with  this  matter?  "  he  asked, 
in  a  voice  which  instantly  froze  the  luckless  Joseph. 

"  Is  it  not  she  that — that — I  love  ?  "  stammered  the  assist- 
ant. 

Much  put  out  by  his  own  want  of  perspicacity,  Guillaume 
sat  down  again,  and  rested  his  long  head  in  his  hands  to 


26  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

consider  the  perplexing  situation  in  which  he  found  himself. 
Joseph  Lebas,  shamefaced  and  in  despair,  remained  standing. 

"  Joseph,"  the  draper  said  with  frigid  dignity,  "  I  was 
speaking  of  Virginie.  Love  cannot  be  made  to  order,  I 
know.  I  know,  too,  that  you  can  be  trusted.  We  will 
forget  all  this.  I  will  not  let  Augustine  marry  before  Vir- 
ginie.— Your  interest  will  be  ten  per  cent." 

The  young  man,  to  whom  love  gave  I  know  not  what 
power  of  courage  and  eloquence,  clasped  his  hand,  and  spoke 
in  his  turn — spoke  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  with  so  much 
warmth  and  feeling,  that  he  altered  the  situation.  If  the 
question  had  been  a  matter  of  business,  the  old  tradesman 
would  have  had  fixed  principles  to  guide  his  decision ;  but, 
tossed  a  thousand  miles  from  commerce,  on  the  ocean  of 
sentiment,  without  a  compass,  he  floated,  as  he  told  himself, 
undecided  in  the  face  of  such  an  unexpected  event.  Carried 
away  by  his  fatherly  kindness,  he  began  to  beat  about  the 
bush. 

"  Deuce  take  it,  Joseph,  you  must  know  that  there  are 
ten  years  between  my  two  children.  Mile.  Chevrel  was  no 
beauty,  still  she  has  had  nothing  to  complain  of  in  me.  Do 
as  I  did.  Come,  come,  don't  cry.  Can  you  be  so  silly? 
What  is  to  be  done?  It  can  be  managed  perhaps.  There 
is  always  some  way  out  of  a  Scrape.  And  we  men  are  not 
always  devoted  Celadons  to  our  wives — you  understand? 
Mme.  Guillaume  is  very  pious.  .  .  .  Come.  By  Gad, 
boy,  give  your  arm  to  Augustine  this  morning  as  we  go 
to  Mass." 

These  were  the  phrases  spoken  at  random  by  the  old 
draper,  and  their  conclusion  made  the  lover  happy.  He  was 
already  thinking  of  a  friend  of  his  as  a  match  for  Mile. 
Virginie,  as  he  went  out  of  the  smoky  office,  pressing  his 
future  father-in-law's  hand,  after  saying  with  a  knowing 
look  that  all  would  turn  out  for  the  best. 

"What  will  Mme.  Guillame  say  to  it?"  was  the  idea 
that  greatly  troubled  the  worthy  merchant  when  he  found 
himself  alone. 

At  breakfast  Mme.  Guillaume  and  Virginie,  to  whom  the 
draper  had  not  as  yet  confided  his  disappointment,  cast  mean- 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  27 

ing  glances  at  Joseph  Lebas,  who  was  extremely  embarrassed. 
The  young  assistant's  bashfulness  commended  him  to  his 
mother-in-law's  good  graces.  The  matron  became  so  cheer- 
ful that  she  smiled  as  she  looked  at  her  husband,  and  allowed 
herself  some  little  pleasantries  of  time-honored  acceptance 
in  such  simple  families.  She  wondered  whether  Joseph  or 
Virginie  were  the  taller,  to  ask  them  to  compare  their  height. 
This  preliminary  fooling  brought  a  cloud  to  the  master's 
brow,  and  he  even  made  such  a  point  of  decorum  that  he 
desired  Augustine  to  take  the  assistant's  arm  on  their  way 
to  Saint-Leu.  Mme.  Guillaume,  surprised  at  this  manly  del- 
icacy, honored  her  husband  with  a  nod  of  approval.  So 
the  procession  left  the  house  in  such  order  as  to  suggest  no 
suspicious  meaning  to  the  neighbors. 

"  Does  it  not  seem  to  you.  Mile.  Augustine,"  said  the 
assistant,  and  he  trembled,  "  that  the  wife  of  a  merchant 
whose  credit  is  as  good  as  M.  Guillaume's,  for  instance, 
might  enjoy  herself  a  little  more  than  madame  your  mother 
does.?  Might  wear  diamonds — or  keep  a  carriage.?  For 
my  part,  if  I  were  to  marry,  I  should  be  glad  to  take 
all  the  work,  and  see  ray  wife  happy.  I  would  not  put  her 
into  the  counting-house.  In  the  drapery  business,  you  see, 
a  woman  is  not  so  necessary  now  as  formerly.  M.  Guillaume 
was  quite  right  to  act  as  he  did — and  besides,  his  wife  liked 
it.  But  so  long  as  a  woman  knows  how  to  turn  her  hand  to 
the  bookkeeping,  the  correspondence,  the  retail  business, 
the  orders,  and  her  housekeeping,  so  as  not  to  sit  idle,  that 
is  enough.  At  seven  o'clock,  when  the  shop  is  shut,  I  shall 
take  my  pleasures,  go  to  the  play,  and  into  company. — But 
you  are  not  listening  to  me." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  M.  Joseph.  What  do  you  think  of  paint- 
ing.''    That  is   a  fine  calling." 

"  Yes.  I  know  a  master  house-painter,  M.  Lourdois.  He 
is  well-to-do." 

Thus  conversing,  the  family  reached  the  Church  of  Saint- 
Leu.  There  Mme.  Guillaume  reasserted  her  rights,  and,  for 
the  first  time,  placed  Augustine  next  to  herself,  Virginie 
taking  her  place  on  the  fourth  chair,  next  to  Lebas.  During 
the  sermon  all  went  well  between  Augustine  and  Theodore, 


g8  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

who,  standing  behind  a  pillar,  worshiped  his  Madonna  with 
fervent  devotion;  but  at  the  elevation  of  the  Host,  Mme. 
Guillaume  discovered,  rather  late,  that  her  daughter  Augus- 
tine was  holding  her  prayer-book  upside  down.  She  was 
about  to  speak  to  her  strongly,  when,  lowering  her  veil, 
she  interrupted  her  own  devotions  to  look  in  the  direction 
where  her  daughter's  eyes  found  attraction.  By  the  help 
of  her  spectacles  she  saw  the  young  artist,  whose  fashionable 
elegance  seemed  to  proclaim  him  a  cavalry  officer  on  leave 
rather  than  a  tradesman  of  the  neighborhood.  It  is  difficult 
to  conceive  of  the  state  of  violent  agitation  in  which  Mme. 
Guillaume  found  herself — she,  who  flattered  herself  on  having 
brought  up  her  daughters  to  perfection — on  discovering  in 
Augustine  a  clandestine  passion  of  which  her  prudery  and 
ignorance  exaggerated  the  perils.  She  believed  her  daughter 
to  be  cankered  to  the  core. 

"  Hold  your  book  right  way  up,  miss,"  she  muttered  in 
a  low  voice,  tremulous  with  wrath.  She  snatched  away  the 
telltale  prayer-book  and  returned  it  with  the  letter-press 
right  way  up.  "  Do  not  allow  your  eyes  to  look  anywhere 
but  at  your  prayers,"  she  added,  "  or  I  shall  have  something 
to  say  to  you.  Your  father  and  I  will  talk  to  you  after 
church." 

These  words  came  like  a  thunderbolt  on  poor  Augustine. 
She  felt  faint;  but,  torn  between  the  distress  she  felt  and 
the  dread  of  causing  a  commotion  in  church,  she  bravely 
concealed  her  anguish.  It  was,  however,  easy  to  discern 
the  stormy  state  of  her  soul  from  the  trembling  of  her 
prayer-book,  and  the  tears  which  dropped  on  every  page 
she  turned.  From  the  furious  glare  shot  at  him  by  Mme. 
Guillaume  the  artist  saw  the  peril  into  which  his  love  affair 
had  fallen;  he  went  out,  with  a  raging  soul,  determined  to 
venture  all. 

"  Go  to  your  room,  miss ! "  said  Mme.  Guillaume,  on 
their  return  home ;  "  we  will  send  for  you,  but  take  care 
not  to  quit  it." 

The  conference  between  the  husband  and  wife  was  con- 
ducted so  secretly  that  at  first  nothing  was  heard  of  it. 
Virginie,  however,  who  had  tried  to  give  her  sister  courage 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  29 

by  a  variety  of  gentle  remonstrances,  carried  her  good  nature 
so  far  as  to  listen  at  the  door  of  her  mother's  bedroom,  where 
the  discussion  was  held,  to  catch  a  word  or  two.  The  first 
time  she  went  down  to  the  lower  floor  she  heard  her  father 
exclaim,  "  Then,  madame,  do  you  wish  to  kill  your  daugh- 
ter? " 

"  My  poor  dear ! "  said  Virginie,  in  tears,  "  papa  takes 
your  part." 

"  And  what  do  they  want  to  do  to  Theodore.''  "  asked  the 
innocent  girl. 

Virginie,  inquisitive,  went  down  again ;  but  this  time  she 
stayed  longer ;  she  learned  that  Joseph  Lebas  loved  Augustine. 
It  was  written  that  on  this  memorable  day,  this  house, 
generally  so  peaceful,  should  be  a  hell.  M.  Guillaume 
brought  Joseph  Lebas  to  despair  by  telling  him  of  Augus- 
tine's love  for  a  stranger.  Lebas,  who  had  advised  his 
friend  to  become  a  suitor  for  Mile.  Virginie,  saw  all  his 
hopes  wrecked.  Mile.  Virginie,  overcome  by  hearing  that 
Joseph  had,  in  a  way,  refused  her,  had  a  sick  headache. 
The  dispute  that  had  arisen  from  the  discussion  between 
M.  and  Mme.  Guillaume,  when,  for  the  third  time  in  their 
lives,  they  had  been  of  antagonistic  opinions,  had  shown 
itself  in  a  terrible  form.  Finally,  at  half-past  four  in  the 
afternoon,  Augustine,  pale,  trembling,  and  with  red  eyes,  was 
haled  before  her  father  and  mother.  The  poor  child  art- 
lessly related  the  too  brief  tale  of  her  love.  Reassured  by  a 
speech  from  her  father,  who  promised  to  listen  to  her  in 
silence,  she  gathered  courage  as  she  pronounced  to  her  par- 
ents the  name  of  Theodore  de  Sommervieux,  with  a  mis- 
chievous little  emphasis  on  the  aristocratic  de.  And  yield- 
ing to  the  unknown  charm  of  talking  of  her  feelings,  she  was 
brave  enough  to  declare  with  innocent  decision  that  she  loved 
M.  de  Sommervieux,  that  she  had  written  to  him,  and  she 
added,  with  tears  in  her  eyes :  "  To  sacrifice  me  to  another 
man  would  make  me  wretched." 

"  But,  Augustine,  you  cannot  surely  know  what  a  painter 
is.**  "  cried  her  mother  with  horror. 

"  Mme.  Guillaume ! "  said  the  old  man,  compelling  her 
to  silence. — "  Augustine,"  he  went  on,  "  artists  are  generally 


30  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

little  better  than  beggars.  They  are  too  extravagant  not 
to  be  always  a  bad  sort.  I  served  the  late  M.  Joseph  Vemet, 
the  late  M.  Lekain,  and  the  late  M.  Noverre.  Oh,  if  you 
could  only  know  the  tricks  played  on  poor  Father  Chevrel 
by  that  M.  Noverre,  by  the  Chevalier  de  Saint-Georges,  and 
especially  by  M.  Philidor !  They  are  a  set  of  rascals ;  I 
know  them  well!  They  all  have  a  gab  and  nice  manners. 
Ah,  your  M.  Sumer ,  Somm " 

"  De  Sommervieux,  papa." 

"  Well,  well,  de  Sommervieux,  well  and  good.  He  can 
never  have  been  half  so  sweet  to  you  as  M.  le  Chevalier  de 
Saint-Georges  was  to  me  the  day  I  got  a  verdict  of  the 
consuls  against  him.  And  in  those  days  they  were  gentlemen 
of  quality." 

"  But,  father,  M.  Theodore  is  of  good  family,  and  he 
wrote  me  that  he  is  rich;  his  father  was  called  Chevalier  de 
Sommervieux  before  the  Revolution." 

At  these  words  M.  Guillaume  looked  at  his  terrible  better- 
half,  who,  like  an  angry  woman,  sat  tapping  the  floor  with 
her  foot  while  keeping  sullen  silence;  she  avoided  even  cast- 
ing wrathful  looks  at  Augustine,  appearing  to  leave  to  M. 
Guillaume  the  whole  responsibility  in  so  grave  a  matter, 
since  her  opinion  was  not  listened  to.  Nevertheless,  in  spite 
of  her  apparent  self-control,  when  she  saw  her  husband  giving 
way  so  mildly  under  a  catastrophe  which  had  no  concern 
with  business,  she  exclaimed — 

"  Really,  monsieur,  you  are  so  weak  with  your  daughters ! 
However " 

The  sound  of  a  carriage,  which  stopped  at  the  door, 
interrupted  the  rating  which  the  old  draper  already  quaked 
at.  In  a  minute  Mme.  Roquin  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  and  looking  at  the  actors  in  this  domestic 
scene :  "  I  know  all,  my  dear  cousin,"  said  she,  with  a  patron- 
izing air. 

Mme.  Roquin  made  the  great  mistake  of  supposing  that 
a  Paris  notary's  wife  could  play  the  part  of  a  favorite  of 
fashion. 

"  I  know  all,"  she  repeated,  "  and  I  have  come  into  Noah's 
Ark,  like  the  dove,  with  the  olive-branch.     I  read  that  allegory 


THE  CAT  AND  EACKET  31 

in  the  Genie  du  Christianisme"  she  added,  turning  to  Mme. 
Guillaume ;  "  the  allusion  ought  to  please  you,  cousin.  Do 
you  know,"  she  went  on,  smiling  at  Augustine,  "  that  M.  de 
Sommervieux  is  a  charming  man?  He  gave  me  my  portrait 
this  morning,  painted  by  a  master's  hand.  It  is  worth  at 
least  six  thousand  francs."  And  at  these  words  she  patted 
M.  Guillaume  on  the  arm.  The  old  draper  could  not  help 
making  a  grimace  with  his  lips  which  was  peculiar  to  him. 

"  I  know  M.  de  Sommervieux  very  well,"  the  Dove  ran 
on.  "  He  has  come  to  my  evenings  this  fortnight  past,  and 
made  them  delightful.  He  has  told  me  all  his  woes,  and 
commissioned  me  to  plead  for  him.  I  know  since  this  morn- 
ing that  he  adores  Augustine,  and  he  shall  have  her.  Ah, 
cousin,  do  not  shake  your  head  in  refusal.  He  will  be  created 
Baron,  I  can  tell  you,  and  has  just  been  made  Chevalier  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor,  by  the  Emperor  himself,  at  the  Salon. 
Roquin  is  now  his  lawyer,  and  knows  all  his  affairs.  Well! 
M.  Sommervieux  has  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year  in  good 
landed  estate.  Do  you  know  that  the  father-in-law  of  such 
a  man  may  get  a  rise  in  life — be  mayor  of  his  arrondisse- 
ment,  for  instance.  Have  we  not  seen  M.  Dupont  become 
a  Count  of  the  Empire,  and  a  senator,  all  because  he  went 
as  mayor  to  congratulate  the  Emperor  on  his  entry  into 
Vienna.'*  Oh,  this  marriage  must  take  place!  For  my  part, 
I  adore  the  dear  young  man.  His  behavior  to  Augustine  is 
only  met  with  in  romances.  Be  easy,  little  one,  you  shall  be 
happy,  and  every  girl  will  wish  she  were  in  your  place.  Mme. 
la  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  who  comes  to  my  '  At  Homes,' 
raves  about  M.  de  Sommervieux.  Some  spiteful  people  say 
she  only  comes  to  me  to  meet  him ;  as  if  a  duchess  of  yester- 
day was  doing  too  much  honor  to  a  Chevrel,  whose  family 
have  been  respected  citizens  these  hundred  years ! 

"  Augustine,"  Mme.  Roquin  went  on,  after  a  short  pause, 
*'  I  have  seen  the  portrait.  Heavens !  How  lovely  it  is ! 
Do  you  know  that  the  Emperor  wanted  to  have  it?  He 
laughed,  and  said  to  the  deputy  high  constable  that  if  there 
were  many  women  like  that  at  his  Court  while  all  the  kings 
visited  it,  he  should  have  no  difficulty  about  preserving  the 
peace  of  Europe.     Is  not  that  a  compliment?  " 


32  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

The  tempests  with  which  the  day  had  begitn  were  to  re- 
semble those  of  Nature,  by  ending  in  clear  and  serene  weather. 
Mme.  Roquin  displayed  so  much  address  in  her  harangue, 
she  was  able  to  touch  so  many  strings  in  the  dry  hearts  of 
M.  and  Mme.  Guillaume,  that  at  last  she  hit  on  one  which 
she  could  work  upon.  At  this  strange  period  commerce  and 
finance  were  more  than  ever  possessed  by  the  crazy  mania  for 
seeking  alliance  with  rank;  and  the  generals  of  the  Empire 
took  full  advantage  of  this  desire.  M.  Guillaume,  as  a  singu- 
lar exception,  opposed  this  deplorable  craving.  His  favorite 
axioms  were  that,  to  secure  happiness,  a  woman  must  marry 
a  man  of  her  own  class;  that  everyone  was  punished  soonef 
or  later  for  having  climbed  too  high ;  that  love  could  so  little 
endure  under  the  worries  of  a  household,  that  both  husband 
and  wife  needed  sound  good  qualities  to  be  happy;  that  it 
would  not  do  for  one  to  be  far  in  advance  of  the  other, 
because,  above  everything,  they  must  understand  each  other; 
if  a  man  spoke  Greek  and  his  wife  Latin,  they  might  come 
to  die  of  hunger.  He  had  himself  invented  this  sort  of  adage. 
And  he  compared  such  marriages  to  old-fashioned  materials 
of  mixed  silk  and  wool,  in  which  the  silk  always  at  last 
wore  through  the  wool.  Still,  there  is  so  much  vanity  at 
the  bottom  of  man's  heart  that  the  prudence  of  the  pilot 
who  steered  the  Cat  and  Racket  so  wisely  gave  way  before 
Mme.  Roquin's  aggressive  volubility.  Austere  Mme.  Guil- 
laume was  the  first  to  see  in  her  daughter's  affection  a  reason 
for  abdicating  her  principles  and  for  consenting  to  receive 
M.  de  Sommervieuj,  whom  she  promised  herself  she  would 
put  under  severe  inquisition. 

The  old  draper  went  to  look  for  Joseph  Lebas,  and  inform 
him  of  the  state  of  affairs.  At  half-past  six,  the  dining-room 
immortalized  by  the  artist  saw,  united  under  its  skylight, 
M.  and  Mme.  Roquin,  the  young  painter  and  his  charming 
Augustine,  Joseph  Lebas,  who  found  his  happiness  in  pa- 
tience, and  Mile.  Virginie,  convalescent  from  her  headache. 
M.  and  Mme.  Guillaume  saw  in  perspective  both  their  chil- 
dren married,  and  the  fortunes  of  the  Cat  and  Racket  once 
more  in  skillful  hands.  Their  satisfaction  was  at  its  height 
when,   at   dessert,   Theodore   made  them   a  present   of  the 


THE  CAT  AND  EACKET  83 

wonderful  picture  which  they  had  failed  to  see,  representing 
the  interior  of  the  old  shop,  and  to  which  thej  all  owed  so 
much  happiness. 

"  Isn't  it  pretty !  "  cried  Guillaume.  "  And  to  think  that 
anyone  would  pay  thirty  thousand  francs  for  that !  " 

"  Because  you  can  see  my  lappets  in  it,"  said  Mme.  Guil- 
laume. 

"  And  the  cloth  unrolled !  "  added  Lebas ;  "  you  might  take 
it  up  in  your  hand." 

"  Drapery  always  comes  out  well,"  replied  the  painter. 
*'  We  should  be  only  too  happy,  we  modern  artists,  if  we 
could  touch  the  perfection  of  antique  drapery." 

"  So  you  like  drapery !  "  cried  old  Guillaume.  "  Well, 
then,  by  Gad !  shake  hands  on  that,  my  young  friend.  Since 
you  can  respect  trade,  we  shall  understand  each  other.  And 
why  should  it  be  despised?  The  world  began  with  trade, 
since  Adam  sold  Paradise  for  an  apple.  He  did  not  strike 
a  good  bargain  though !  "  And  the  old  man  roared  with 
honest  laughter,  encouraged  by  the  champagne,  which  he 
sent  round  with  a  liberal  hand.  The  band  that  covered  the 
young  artist's  eyes  was  so  thick  that  he  thought  his  future 
parents  amiable.  He  was  not  above  enlivening  them  by  a 
few  jests  in  the  best  taste.  So  he  too  pleased  everyone. 
In  the  evening,  when  the  drawing-room,  furnished  with  what 
Mme.  Guillaume  called  "  everything  handsome,"  was  deserted, 
and  while  she  flitted  from  the  table  to  the  chimney-piece,  from 
the  candelabra  to  the  tall  candlesticks,  hastily  blowing  out 
the  wax-lights,  the  worthy  draper,  who  was  always  clear- 
sighted when  money  was  in  question,  called  Augustine  to  him, 
and  seating  her  on  his  knee,  spoke  as  follows : — 

"  My  dear  child,  you  shall  marry  your  Sommervieux  since 
you  insist ;  you  may,  if  you  like,  risk  your  capital  in  happi- 
ness. But  I  am  not  going  to  be  hoodwinked  by  the  thirty 
thousand  francs  to  be  made  by  spoiling  good  canvas.  Money 
that  is  lightly  earned  is  lightly  spent.  Did  I  not  hear  that 
hare-brained  youngster  declare  this  evening  that  money  was 
made  round  that  it  might  roll.  If  it  is  round  for  spend- 
thrifts, it  is  flat  for  saving  folks  who  pile  it  up.  Now,  my 
child,  that  fine  gentleman  talks  of  giving  you  carriages  and 


34  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

diamonds !  He  has  money,  let  him  spend  it  on  you ;  so  be  it. 
It  is  no  concern  of  mine.  But  as  to  what  I  can  give  you,  I 
will  not  have  the  cro^Ti-pieces  I  have  picked  up  with  so  much 
toil  wasted  in  carriages  and  frippery.  Those  who  spend  too 
fast  never  grow  rich.  A  hundred  thousand  crowns,  which 
is  your  fortune,  will  not  buy  up  Paris.  It  is  all  very  wci^ 
to  look  forward  to  a  few  hundred  thousand  francs  to  be 
yours  some  day ;  I  shall  keep  you  waiting  for  them  as  long 
as  possible,  by  Gad !  So  I  took  your  lover  aside,  and  a 
man  who  managed  the  Lecocq  bankruptcy  had  not  much 
difficulty  in  persuading  the  artist  to  marry  under  a  settle- 
ment of  his  wife's  money  on  herself.  I  will  keep  an  eye  on 
the  marriage  contract  to  see  that  what  he  is  to  settle  on  you 
is  safely  tied  up.  So  now,  my  child,  I  hope  to  be  a  grand- 
father, by  Gad !  I  will  begin  at  once  to  lay  up  for  my 
grandchildren ;  but  swear  to  me,  here  and  now,  never  to  sign 
any  papers  relating  to  money  without  my  advice;  and  if  I 
go  soon  to  join  old  Father  Chevrel,  promise  to  consult  young 
Lebas,  your  brother-in-law." 

"  Yes,  father,  I  swear  it." 

At  these  words,  spoken  in  a  gentle  voice,  the  old  man 
kissed  his  daughter  on  both  cheeks.  That  night  the  lovers 
slept  as  soundly  as  M.  and  Mme.  Guillaume. 

Some  few  months  after  this  memorable  Sunday  the  high 
altar  of  Saint-Leu  was  the  scene  of  two  very  different 
weddings.  Augustine  and  Theodore  appeared  in  all  the  radi- 
ance of  happiness,  their  eyes  beaming  with  love,  dressed 
with  elegance,  while  a  fine  carriage  waited  for  them.  Vir- 
ginie,  who  had  come  in  a  good  hired  fly  with  the  rest  of  the 
family,  humbly  followed  her  younger  sister,  dressed  in  the 
simplest  fashion,  like  a  shadow  necessary  to  the  harmony  of 
the  picture.  M.  Guillaume  had  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost 
in  the  church  to  get  Virginie  married  before  Augustine,  but 
the  priests,  high  and  low,  persisted  in  addressing  the  more 
elegant  of  the  two  brides.  He  heard  some  of  his  neighbors 
highly  approving  the  good  sense  of  Mile.  Virginie,  who  was 
making,  as  they  said,  the  more  substantial  match,  and  re- 
maining faithful  to  the  neighborhood;  while   they  fired  a 


THE  CAT  AND  EACKET  U 

few  taunts,  prompted  by  envy  of  Augustine,  who  was  marry- 
ing an  artist  and  a  man  of  rank ;  adding,  with  a  sort  of 
dismay,  that  if  the  Guillaumes  were  ambitious,  there  was  an 
end  to  the  business.  An  old  fan-maker  having  remarked 
that  such  a  prodigal  would  soon  bring  his  wife  to  beggary. 
Father  Guillaume  prided  himself  in  petto  for  his  prudence 
in  the  matter  of  marriage  settlements.  In  the  evening,  after 
a  splendid  ball,  followed  by  one  of  those  substantial  suppers 
of  which  the  memory  is  dying  out  in  the  present  generation, 
M.  and  Mme.  Guillaume  remained  in  a  fine  house  belonging 
to  them  in  the  Rue  du  Colombier,  where  the  wedding  had  been 
held ;  M.  and  Mme.  Lebas  returned  in  their  fly  to  the  old  home 
in  the  Rue  Saint-Denis,  to  steer  the  good  ship  Cat  and  Racket. 
The  artist,  intoxicated  with  happiness,  carried  ofi^  his  beloved 
Augustine,  and  eagerly  lifting  her  out  of  their  carriage  when 
it  reached  the  Rue  des  Trois-Freres,  led  her  to  an  apartment 
embellished  by  all  the  arts. 

The  fever  of  passion  which  possessed  Theodore  made  a 
year  fly  over  the  young  couple  without  a  single  cloud  to 
dim  the  blue  sky  under  which  they  lived.  Life  did  not  hang 
heavy  on  the  lovers'  hands.  Theodore  lavished  on  every 
day  inexhaustible  fioriture  of  enjoyment,  and  he  delighted 
to  vary  the  transports  of  passion  by  the  soft  languor  of  those 
hours  of  repose  when  souls  soar  so  high  that  they  seem 
to  have  forgotten  all  bodily  union.  Augustine  was  too  happy 
for  reflection ;  she  floated  on  an  undulating  tide  of  rapture ; 
she  thought  she  could  not  do  enough  by  abandoning  herself 
to  sanctioned  and  sacred  married  love;  simple  and  artless,, 
she  had  no  coquetry,  no  reserves,  none  of  the  dominion  which 
a  worldly-minded  girl  acquires  over  her  husband  by  ingenious 
caprice;  she  loved  too  well  to  calculate  for  the  future,  and 
never  imagined  that  so  exquisite  a  life  could  come  to  an  end. 
Happy  in  being  her  husband's  sole  delight,  she  believed  that 
her  inextinguishable  love  would  always  be  her  greatest  grace 
in  his  eyes,  as  her  devotion  and  obedience  would  be  a  peren- 
nial charm.  And,  indeed,  the  ecstasy  of  love  had  made  her 
so  brilliantly  lovely  that  her  beauty  filled  her  with  pride, 
and  gave  her  confidence  that  she  could  always  reign  over  a 
man  so  easy  to  kindle  as  M.  de  Sommervieux.     Thus  her 


S6  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

position  as  a  wife  brought  her  no  knowledge  but  the  lessons 
of  love. 

In  the  midst  of  her  happiness,  she  was  still  the  simple 
child  who  had  lived  in  obscurity  in  the  Rue  Saint-Denis,  and 
she  never  thought  of  acquiring  the  manners,  the  information, 
the  tone  of  the  world  she  had  to  live  in.  Her  words  being 
the  words  of  love,  she  revealed  in  them,  no  doubt,  a  certain 
pliancy  of  mind  and  a  certain  refinement  of  speech;  but  she 
used  the  language  common  to  all  women  when  they  find  them- 
selves plunged  in  passion,  which  seems  to  be  their  element. 
When,  by  chance,  Augustine  expressed  an  idea  that  did  not 
harmonize  with  Theodore's,  the  young  artist  laughed,  as  we 
laugh  at  the  first  mistakes  of  a  foreigner,  though  they  end 
by  annoying  us  if  they  are  not  corrected. 

In  spite  of  all  this  love-making,  by  the  end  of  this  year, 
as  delightful  as  it  was  swift,  Sommervieux  felt  one  morning 
the  need  for  resuming  his  work  and  his  old  habits.  His  wife 
was  expecting  their  first  child.  He  saw  some  friends  again. 
During  the  tedious  discomforts  of  the  year  when  a  young 
wife  is  nursing  an  infant  for  the  first  time,  he  worked,  no 
doubt,  with  zeal,  but  he  occasionally  sought  diversion  in  the 
fashionable  world.  The  house  which  he  was  best  pleased  to 
frequent  was  that  of  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  who  had 
at  last  attracted  the  celebrated  artist  to  her  parties.  When 
Augustine  was  quite  well  again,  and  her  boy  no  longer  re- 
■quired  the  assiduous  care  which  debars  a  mother  from  social 
pleasures,  Theodore  had  come  to  the  stage  of  wishing  to 
know  the  joys  of  satisfied  vanity  to  be  found  in  society  by  a 
man  who  shows  himself  with  a  handsome  woman,  the  object 
,of  envy  and  admiration. 

To  figure  in  drawing-rooms  with  the  reflected  luster  of 
her  husband's  fame,  and  to  find  other  women  envious  of 
;her,  was  to  Augustine  a  new  harvest  of  pleasures ;  but  it  was 
ihe  last  gleam  of  conjugal  happiness.  She  first  wounded 
her  husband's  vanity  when,  in  spite  of  vain  efforts,  she 
betrayed  her  ignorance,  the  inelegance  of  her  language,  and 
the  narrowness  of  her  ideas.  Sommervieux's  nature,  subju- 
gated for  nearly  two  years  and  a  half  by  the  first  transports 
pf  love,  now,  in  the  calm  of  less  new  possession,  recovered 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  37 

its  bent  and  habits,  for  a  while  diverted  from  their  channels. 
Poetry,  painting,  and  the  subtle  joys  of  imagination  have 
inalienable  rights  over  a  lofty  spirit.  These  cravings  of  a 
powerful  soul  had  not  been  starved  in  Theodore  during  these 
two  years ;  they  had  only  found  fresh  pasture.  As  soon  as 
the  meadows  of  love  had  been  ransacked,  and  the  artist  had 
gathered  roses  and  cornflowers  as  the  children  do,  so  greedily 
that  he  did  not  see  that  his  hands  could  hold  no  more,  the 
scene  changed.  When  the  painter  showed  his  wife  the 
sketches  for  his  finest  compositions  he  heard  her  exclaim,  as 
her  father  had  done,  "  How  pretty !  "  This  tepid  admiration 
was  not  the  outcome  of  conscientious  feeling,  but  of  her 
faith  on  the  strength  of  love. 

Augustine  cared  more  for  a  look  than  for  the  finest  picture. 
The  only  sublime  she  knew  was  that  of  the  heart.  At  last 
Theodore  could  not  resist  the  evidence  of  the  cruel  fact — 
his  wife  was  insensible  to  poetry,  she  did  not  dwell  in  his 
sphere,  she  could  not  follow  him  in  all  his  vagaries,  his 
inventions,  his  joys  and  his  sorrows;  she  walked  groveling 
in  the  world  of  reality,  while  his  head  was  in  the  skies. 
Common  minds  cannot  appreciate  the  perennial  sufferings 
of  a  being  who,  while  bound  to  another  by  the  most  intimate 
affections,  is  obliged  constantly  to  suppress  the  dearest  flights 
of  his  soul,  and  to  thrust  down  into  the  void  those  images 
which  a  magic  power  compels  him  to  create.  To  him  the 
torture  is  all  the  more  intolerable  because  his  feeling  towards 
his  companion  enjoins,  as  its  first  law,  that  they  should  have 
no  concealments,  but  mingle  the  aspirations  of  their  thought 
as  perfectly  as  the  effusions  of  their  soul.  The  demands  of 
Nature  are  not  to  be  cheated.  She  is  as  inexorable  as  neces- 
sity, which  is,  indeed,  a  sort  of  social  nature.  Sommervieux 
took  refuge  in  the  peace  and  silence  of  his  studio,  hoping 
that  the  habit  of  living  with  artists  might  mold  his  wife 
and  develop  in  her  the  dormant  germs  of  lofty  intelligence 
which  some  superior  minds  suppose  must  exist  in  every  being. 
But  Augustine  was  too  sincerely  religious  not  to  take  fright 
at  the  tone  of  artists.  At  the  first  dinner  Theodore  gave, 
she  heard  a  young  painter  say,  with  the  childlike  lightness, 
which  to  her  was  unintelligible,  and  which  redeems  a  jest  from 


38  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

the  taint  of  profanity,  "  But,  madame,  your  Paradise  cannot 
be  more  beautiful  than  Raphael's  Transfiguration ! — Well,  and 
I  got  tired  of  looking  at  that." 

Thus  Augustine  came  among  this  sparkling  set  in  a  spirit 
of  distrust  which  no  one  could  fail  to  see.  She  was  a  re- 
straint on  their  freedom.  Now,  an  artist  who  feels  restraint 
is  pitiless ;  he  stays  away,  or  laughs  it  to  scorn.  Mme. 
Guillaume,  among  other  absurdities,  had  an  excessive  notion 
of  the  dignity  she  considered  the  prerogative  of  a  married 
woman ;  and  Augustine,  though  she  had  often  made  fun  of 
it,  could  not  help  a  slight  imitation  of  her  mother's  primness. 
This  extreme  propriety,  which  virtuous  wives  do  not  always 
avoid,  suggested  a  few  epigrams  in  the  form  of  sketches,  in 
which  the  harmless  jest  was  in  such  good  taste  that  Sommer- 
vieux  could  not  take  offense ;  and  even  if  they  had  been  more 
severe,  these  pleasantries  were  after  all  only  reprisals  from 
his  friends.  Still,  nothing  could  seem  a  trifle  to  a  spirit 
so  open  as  Theodore's  to  impressions  from  without.  A  cold- 
ness insensibly  crept  over  him,  and  inevitably  spread.  To 
attain  conjugal  happiness  we  must  climb  a  hill  whose  summit 
is  a  narrow  ridge,  close  to  a  steep  and  slippery  descent ;  the 
painter's  love  was  falling  down  it.  He  regarded  his  wife 
as  incapable  of  appreciating  the  moral  considerations  which 
justified  him  in  his  o^^n  eyes  for  his  singular  behavior  to  her, 
and  believed  himself  quite  innocent  in  hiding  from  her 
thoughts  she  could  not  enter  into,  and  peccadilloes  outside 
the  jurisdiction  of  a  bourgeois  conscience.  Augustine 
wrapped  herself  in  sullen  and  silent  grief.  These  uncon- 
fessed  feelings  placed  a  shroud  between  the  husband  and 
wife  which  could  not  fail  to  grow  thicker  day  by  day. 
Though  her  husband  never  failed  in  consideration  for  her, 
Augustine  could  not  help  trembling  as  she  saw  that  he  kept 
for  the  outer  world  those  treasures  of  wit  and  grace  that 
he  formerly  would  lay  at  her  feet.  She  soon  began  to  find 
a  sinister  meaning  in  the  jocular  speeches  that  are  current 
in  the  world  as  to  the  inconstancy  of  men.  She  made  no 
complaints,  but  her  demeanor  conveyed  reproach. 

Three  years  after  her  marriage  this  pretty  young  woman, 
who  dashed  past  in  her  handsome  carriage,  and  lived  in  a 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  39 

sphere  of  glory  and  riches  to  the  envy  of  heedless  folk 
incapable  of  taking  a  just  view  of  the  situations  of  life,  was 
a  prey  to  intense  grief.  She  lost  her  color;  she  reflected; 
she  made  comparisons ;  then  sorrow  unfolded  to  her  the  first 
lessons  of  experience.  She  determined  to  restrict  herself 
bravely  within  the  round  of  duty,  hoping  that  by  this  gener- 
ous conduct  she  might  sooner  or  later  win  back  her  husband's 
love.  But  it  was  not  so.  When  Sommervieux,  tired  with 
work,  came  in  from  his  studio,  Augustine  did  not  put  away 
her  work  so  quickly  but  that  the  painter  might  find  his  wife 
mending  the  household  linen,  and  his  own,  with  all  the  care 
of  a  good  housewife.  She  supplied  generously  and  without  a 
murmur  the  money  needed  for  his  lavishness;  but  in  her 
anxiety  to  husband  her  dear  Theodore's  fortune,  she  was 
strictly  economical  for  herself  and  in  certain  details  of 
domestic  management.  Such  conduct  is  incompatible  with 
the  easy-going  habits  of  artists,  who,  at  the  end  of  their  life, 
have  enjoyed  it  so  keenly  that  they  never  inquire  into  the 
causes  of  their  ruin. 

It  is  useless  to  note  every  tint  of  shadow  by  which  the 
brilliant  hues  of  their  honeymoon  were  overcast  till  they 
were  lost  in  utter  blackness.  One  evening  poor  Augustine, 
who  had  for  some  time  heard  her  husband  speak  with  en- 
thusiasm of  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  received  from  a 
friend  certain  malignantly  charitable  warnings  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  attachment  which  Sommervieux  had  formed  for 
this  celebrated  flirt  of  the  Imperial  Court.  At  one-and- 
twenty,  in  all  the  splendor  of  youth  and  beauty,  Augustine 
saw  herself  deserted  for  a  woman  of  six-and-thirty.  Feeling 
herself  so  wretched  in  the  midst  of  a  world  of  festivity  which 
to  her  was  a  blank,  the  poor  little  thing  could  no  longer 
understand  the  admiration  she  excited,  or  the  envy  of  which 
she  was  the  object.  Her  face  assumed  a  diff^erent  expression. 
Melancholy  tinged  her  features  with  the  sweetness  of  resigna- 
tion and  the  pallor  of  scorned  love.  Erelong  she  too  was 
courted  by  the  most  fascinating  men ;  but  she  remained  lonely 
and  virtuous.  Some  contemptuous  words  which  escaped  her 
husband  filled  her  with  incredible  despair.  A  sinister  flash 
showed  her  the  breaches  which,  as  a  result  of  her  sordid 


40  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

education,  hindered  the  perfect  union  of  her  soul  with 
Theodore's ;  she  loved  him  well  enough  to  absolve  him  and 
condemn  herself.  She  shed  tears  of  blood,  and  perceived, 
too  late,  that  there  are  mesalliances  of  the  spirit  as  well  as 
of  rank  and  habits.  As  she  recalled  the  early  raptures  of 
their  union,  she  understood  the  full  extent  of  that  lost  happi- 
ness, and  accepted  the  conclusion  that  so  rich  a  harvest  of 
love  was  in  itself  a  whole  life,  which  only  sorrow  could  pay 
for.  At  the  same  time,  she  loved  too  truly  to  lose  all  hope. 
At  one-and-twenty  she  dared  undertake  to  educate  herself, 
and  make  her  imagination,  at  least,  worthy  of  that  she  ad- 
mired, "  If  I  am  not  a  poet,"  thought  she,  "  at  any  rate,  I 
will  understand  poetry." 

Then,  with  all  the  strength  of  will,  all  the  energy  which 
every  woman  can  display  when  she  loves,  Mme.  de  Sommer- 
vieux  tried  to  alter  her  character,  her  manners,  and  her 
habits;  but  by  dint  of  devouring  books  and  learning  un- 
dauntedly, she  only  succeeded  in  becoming  less  ignorant. 
Lightness  of  wit  and  the  graces  of  conversation  are  a  gift 
of  nature,  or  the  fruit  of  education  begun  in  the  cradle.  She 
could  appreciate  music  and  enjoy  it,  but  she  could  not  sing 
with  taste.  She  understood  literature  and  the  beauties  of 
poetry,  but  it  was  too  late  to  cultivate  her  refractory  memory. 
She  listened  with  pleasure  to  social  conversation,  but  she 
could  contribute  nothing  brilliant.  Her  religious  notions 
and  home-grown  prejudices  were  antagonistic  to  the  complete 
emancipation  of  her  intelligence.  Finally,  a  foregone  con- 
clusion against  her  had  stolen  into  Theodore's  mind,  and 
this  she  could  not  conquer.  The  artist  would  laugh  at 
those  who  flattered  him  about  his  wife,  and  his  irony  had 
some  foundation ;  he  so  overawed  the  pathetic  young  creature 
that,  in  his  presence,  or  alone  with  him,  she  trembled. 
Hampered  by  her  too  eager  desire  to  please,  her  wits  and 
her  knowledge  vanished  in  one  absorbing  feeling.  Even 
her  fidelity  vexed  the  unfaithful  husband,  who  seemed  to  bid 
her  do  wrong  by  stigmatizing  her  virtue  as  insensibility. 
Augustine  tried  in  vain  to  abdicate  her  reason,  to  yield  to 
her  husband's  caprices  and  whims,  to  devote  herself  to  the 
selfishness  of  his  vanity.     Her  sacrifices  bore  no  fruit.     Per- 


THE  CAT  AND  EACKET  41 

haps  they  had  both  let  the  moment  slip  when  souls  may  meet 
in  comprehension.  One  day  the  young  wife's  too  sensitive 
heart  received  one  of  those  blows  which  so  strain  the  bonds 
of  feeling  that  they  seem  to  be  broken.  She  withdrew  into 
solitude.  But  before  long  a  fatal  idea  suggested  to  her 
to  seek  counsel  and  comfort  in  the  bosom  of  her  family. 

So  one  morning  she  made  her  way  towards  the  grotesque 
fa9ade  of  the  humble,  silent  home  where  she  had  spent  her 
childhood.  She  sighed  as  she  looked  up  at  the  sash-window, 
whence  one  day  she  had  sent  her  first  kiss  to  him  who  now 
shed  as  much  sorrow  as  glory  on  her  life.  Nothing  was 
changed  in  the  cavern,  where  the  drapery  business  had,  how- 
ever, started  on  a  new  life.  Augustine's  sister  filled  her 
mother's  old  place  at  the  desk.  The  unhappy  young  woman 
met  her  brother-in-law  with  his  pen  behind  his  ear;  he 
hardly  listened  to  her,  he  was  so  full  of  business.  The  formi- 
dable symptoms  of  stock-taking  were  visible  all  round  him; 
he  begged  her  to  excuse  him.  She  was  received  coldly  enough 
by  her  sister,  who  owed  her  a  grudge.  In  fact,  Augustine, 
in  her  finery,  and  stepping  out  of  a  handsome  carriage, 
had  never  been  to  see  her  but  when  passing  by.  The  wife 
of  the  prudent  Lebas,  imagining  that  want  of  money  was 
the  prime  cause  of  this  early  call,  tried  to  keep  up  a  tone 
of  reserve  which  more  than  once  made  Augustine  smile. 
The  painter's  wife  perceived  that,  apart  from  the  cap  and 
lappets,  her  mother  had  found  in  Virginie  a  successor  who 
could  uphold  the  ancient  honor  of  the  Cat  and  Racket.  At 
breakfast  she  observed  certain  changes  in  the  management 
of  the  house  which  did  honor  to  Lebas's  good  sense;  the 
assistants  did  not  rise  before  dessert;  they  were  allowed  to 
talk,  and  the  abundant  meal  spoke  of  ease  without  luxury. 
The  fashionable  woman  found  some  tickets  for  a  box  at  the 
Fran9ais,  where  she  remembered  having  seen  her  sister  from 
time  to  time.  Mme.  Lebas  had  a  cashmere  shawl  over  her 
shoulders,  of  which  the  value  bore  witness  to  her  husband's 
generosity  to  her.  In  short,  the  couple  were  keeping  pace 
with  the  times.  During  the  two-thirds  of  the  day  she  spent 
there,  Augustine  was  touched  to  the  heart  by  the  equable 
happiness,  devoid,  to  be  sure,  of  all  emotion,  but  equally  free 


4St  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

from  storms,  enjoyed  by  this  well-matched  couple.  They 
had  accepted  life  as  a  commercial  enterprise,  in  which,  above 
all,  they  must  do  credit  to  the  business.  Not  finding  any 
great  love  in  her  husband,  Virginie  had  set  to  work  to  create 
it.  Having  by  degrees  learned  to  esteem  and  care  for  his 
wife,  the  time  that  his  happiness  had  taken  to  germinate  was 
to  Joseph  Lebas  a  guarantee  of  its  durability.  Hence,  when 
Augustine  plaintively  set  forth  her  painful  position,  she 
had  to  face  the  deluge  of  commonplace  morality  which  the 
traditions  of  the  Rue  Saint-Denis  furnished  to  her  sister. 

"  The  mischief  is  done,  wife,"  said  Joseph  Lebas ;  "  we 
must  try  to  give  our  sister  good  advice."  Then  the  clever 
tradesman  ponderously  analyzed  the  resources  which  law 
and  custom  might  offer  Augustine  as  a  means  of  escape 
at  this  crisis ;  he  ticketed  every  argument,  so  to  speak,  and 
arranged  them  in  their  degrees  of  weight  under  various 
categories,  as  though  they  were  articles  of  merchandise  of 
different  qualities ;  then  he  put  them  in  the  scale,  weighed 
them,  and  ended  by  showing  the  necessity  for  his  sister-in- 
law's  taking  violent  steps  which  could  not  satisfy  the  love 
she  still  had  for  her  husband ;  and,  indeed,  the  feeling  had 
revived  in  all  its  strength  when  she  heard  Joseph  Lebas  speak 
of  legal  proceedings.  Augustine  thanked  them,  and  returned 
home  even  more  undecided  than  she  had  been  before  con- 
sulting them.  She  now  ventured  to  go  to  the  house  in  the 
Rue  du  Colombier,  intending  to  confide  her  troubles  to  her 
father  and  mother;  for  she  was  like  a  sick  man  who,  in  his 
desperate  plight,  tries  every  prescription,  and  even  puts  faith 
in  old  wives'  remedies. 

The  old  people  received  their  daughter  with  an  effusiveness 
that  touched  her  deeply.  Her  visit  brought  them  some  little 
change,  and  that  to  them  was  worth  a  fortune.  For  the 
last  four  years  they  had  gone  their  way  in  life  like  navigators 
without  a  goal  or  a  compass.  Sitting  by  the  chimney  comer, 
they  would  talk  over  their  disasters  under  the  old  law  of 
maximum,  of  their  great  investments  in  cloth,  of  the  way  they 
had  weathered  bankruptcies,  and,  above  all,  the  famous  failure 
of  Lecocq,  M.  Guillaume's  battle  of  Marengo.  Then,  when 
they  had  exhausted  the  tale  of  lawsuits,  they  recapitulated 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  43 

the  sums-total  of  their  most  profitable  stock-takings,  and  told 
each  other  old  stories  of  the  Saint-Denis  quarter.  At  two 
o'clock  old  Guillaume  went  to  cast  an  eye  on  the  business 
at  the  Cat  and  Racket;  on  his  way  back  he  called  at  all 
the  shops,  formerly  the  rivals  of  his  own,  where  the  young 
proprietors  hoped  to  inveigle  the  old  draper  into  some  risky 
discount,  which,  as  was  his  wont,  he  never  refused  point- 
blank.  Two  good  Normandy  horses  were  dying  of  their  own 
fat  in  the  stables  of  the  big  house;  Mme.  Guillaume  never 
used  them  but  to  drag  her  on  Sundays  to  High  Mass  at  the 
parish  church.  Three  times  a  week  the  worthy  couple  kept 
open  house.  By  the  influence  of  his  son-in-law  Sommervieux, 
M.  Guillaume  had  been  named  a  member  of  the  Consulting 
Board  for  the  Clothing  of  the  Army.  Since  her  husband 
had  stood  so  high  in  office,  Mme.  Guillaume  had  decided  that 
she  must  receive;  her  rooms  were  so  crammed  with  gold  and 
silver  ornaments,  and  furniture,  tasteless  but  of  undoubted 
value,  that  the  simplest  room  in  the  house  looked  like  a 
chapel.  Economy  and  expense  seemed  to  be  struggling  for 
the  upper  hand  in  every  accessory.  It  was  as  though  M. 
Guillaume  had  looked  to  a  good  investment,  even  in  the 
purchase  of  a  candlestick.  In  the  midst  of  this  bazaar,  where 
splendor  revealed  the  owners'  want  of  occupation,  Sommer- 
vieux's  famous  picture  filled  the  place  of  honor,  and  in  it 
M.  and  Mme.  Guillaume  found  their  chief  consolation,  turn- 
ing their  eyes,  harnessed  with  eye-glasses,  twenty  times  a 
day  on  this  presentment  of  their  past  life,  to  them  so  active 
and  amusing.  The  appearance  of  this  mansion  and  these 
rooms,  where  everything  had  an  aroma  of  staleness  and 
mediocrity,  the  spectacle  off"ered  by  these  two  beings,  cast 
away,  as  it  were,  on  a  rock  far  from  the  world  and  the  ideas 
which  are  life,  startled  Augustine ;  she  could  here  contemplate 
the  sequel  of  the  scene  of  which  the  first  part  had  struck 
her  at  the  house  of  Lebas — a  life  of  stir  without  movement, 
a  mechanical  and  instinctive  existence  like  that  of  the  beaver ; 
and  then  she  felt  an  indefinable  pride  in  her  troubles,  as  she 
reflected  that  they  had  their  source  in  eighteen  months  of 
such  happiness  as,  in  her  eyes,  was  worth  a  thousand  lives 
like  this;  its  vacuity  seemed  to  her  horrible.     However,  she 


U  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

concealed  this  not  very  charitable  feeling,  and  displayed  for 
her  parents  her  newly-acquired  accomplishments  of  mind, 
and  the  ingratiating  tenderness  that  love  had  revealed  to  her, 
disposing  them  to  listen  to  her  matrimonial  grievances.  Old 
people  have  a  weakness  for  this  kind  of  confidences.  Mme. 
Guillaume  wanted  to  know  the  most  trivial  details  of  that 
alien  life,  which  to  her  seemed  almost  fabulous.  The  travels 
of  Baron  de  la  Houtan,  which  she  began  again  and  again 
and  never  finished,  told  her  nothing  more  unheard-of  con- 
cerning the  Canadian  savages. 

"  What,  child,  your  husband  shuts  himself  into  a  room 
with  naked  women !  And  you  are  so  simple  as  to  believe 
that  he  draws  them?  " 

As  she  uttered  this  exclamation,  the  grandmother  laid  her 
spectacles  on  a  little  work-table,  shook  her  skirts,  and  clasped 
her  hands  on  her  knees,  raised  by  a  foot-warmer,  her  favorite 
pedestal. 

*'  But,  mother,  all  artists  are  obliged  to  have  models." 

*'  He  took  good  care  not  to  tell  us  that  when  he  asked 
leave  to  marry  you.  If  I  had  known  it,  I  would  never  have 
given  my  daughter  to  a  man  who  followed  such  a  trade. 
Religion  forbids  such  horrors ;  they  are  immoral.  And  at 
what  time  of  night  do  you  say  he  comes  home?  " 

"  At  one  o'clock — two '* 

The  old  folks  looked  at  each  other  in  utter  amazement. 

"  Then  he  gambles  ?  "  said  M.  Guillaume.  "  In  my  day 
only  gamblers  stayed  out  so  late." 

Augustine  made  a  face  that  scorned  the  accusation. 

*'  He  must  keep  you  up  through  dreadful  nights  waiting 
for  him,"  said  Mme.  Guillaume.  "  But  you  go  to  bed,  don't 
you?     And  when  he  has  lost,  the  wretch  wakes  you." 

"  No,  mamma,  on  the  contrary,  he  is  sometimes  in  very 
good  spirits.  Not  unfrequently,  indeed,  when  it  is  fine,  he 
suggests  that  I  should  get  up  and  go  into  the  woods." 

"The  woods!  At  that  hour?  Then  have  you  such  a 
small  set  of  rooms  that  his  bedroom  and  his  sitting-rooms 
are  not  enough,  and  that  he  must  run  about?  But  it  is  just 
to  give  you  cold  that  the  wretch  proposes  such  expeditions. 
He  wants  to  get  rid  of  you.     Did  one  ever  hear  of  a  man 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  45 

settled  in  life,  a  well-behaved,^quiet  man  galloping  about  like 
a  warlock?  " 

"  But,  my  dear  mother,  you  do  not  understand  that  he 
must  have  excitement  to  fire  his  genius.  He  is  fond  of  scenes 
which " 

"  I  would  make  scenes  for  him,  fine  scenes !  "  cried  Mme. 
Guillaume,  interrupting  her  daughter.  "  How  can  you  show 
any  consideration  to  such  a  man?  In  the  first  place,  I  don't 
like  his  drinking  water  only ;  it  is  not  wholesome.  Why  does 
he  object  to  see  a  woman  eating?  What  queer  notion  is  that? 
But  he  is  mad.  All  you  tell  us  about  him  is  impossible.  A 
man  cannot  leave  his  home  without  a  word,  and  never  come 
back  for  ten  days.  And  then  he  tells  you  he  has  been  to 
Dieppe  to  paint  the  sea.  As  if  anyone  painted  the  sea !  He 
crams  you  with  a  pack  of  tales  that  are  too  absurd." 

Augustine  opened  her  lips  to  defend  her  husband;  but 
Mme.  Guillaume  enjoined  silence  with  a  wave  of  her  hand, 
which  she  obeyed  by  a  survival  of  habit,  and  her  mother 
went  on  in  harsh  tones :  "  Don't  talk  to  me  about  the  man ! 
He  never  set  foot  in  a  church  excepting  to  see  you  and  to 
be  married.  People  without  religion  are  capable  of  anything. 
Did  Guillaume  ever  dream  of  hiding  anything  from  me,  of 
spending  three  days  without  saying  a  word  to  me,  and  of 
chattering  afterwards  like  a  blind  magpie?  " 

"  My  dear  mother,  you  judge  superior  people  too  severely. 
If  their  ideas  were  the  same  as  other  folks',  they  would  not 
be  men  of  genius." 

"  Very  well,  then  let  men  of  genius  stop  at  home  and  not 
get  married.  What!  A  man  of  genius  is  to  make  his  wife 
miserable?  And  because  he  is  a  genius  it  is  all  right! 
Genius,  genius!  It  is  not  so  very  clever  to  say  black  one 
minute  and  white  the  next,  as  he  does,  to  interrupt  other 
■  people,  to  dance  such  rigs  at  home,  never  to  let  you  know 
which  foot  you  are  to  stand  on,  to  compel  his  wife  never  to 
be  amused  unless  my  lord  is  in  gay  spirits,  and  to  be  dull 
when  he  is  dull." 

"  But,  mother,  the  very  nature  of  such  imaginations " 

"  What  are  such  *  imaginations  '?  "  Mme.  Guillaume  went 
on,  interrupting  her  daughter  again.     "  Fine  ones  his  are, 


46  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

my  word!  What  possesses  a  man  that  all  on  a  sudden, 
without  consulting  a  doctor,  he  takes  it  into  his  head  to  eat 
nothing  but  vegetables?  If  indeed  it  were  from  religious 
motives,  it  might  do  him  some  good — but  he  has  no  more 
religion  than  a  Huguenot.  Was  there  ever  a  man  known 
who,  like  him,  loved  horses  better  than  his  fellow-creatures, 
had  his  hair  curled  like  a  heathen,  laid  statues  under  muslin 
coverlets,  shut  his  shutters  in  broad  day  to  work  by  lamp- 
light? There,  get  along;  if  he  were  not  so  grossly  immoral, 
he  would  be  fit  to  shut  up  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  Consult  M. 
Loraux,  the  priest  at  Saint-Sulpice,  ask  his  opinion  about 
it  all,  and  he  will  tell  you  that  your  husband  does  not  behave 
like  a  Christian." 
•   *' Oh,  mother,  can  you  believe ? '* 

"  Yes,  I  do  believe.  You  loved  him,  and  you  can  see  none 
of  these  things.  But  I  can  remember  in  the  early  days  after 
your  marriage.  I  met  him  in  the  Champs-Elysees.  He  was 
on  horseback.  Well,  at  one  minute  he  was  galloping  as 
hard  as  he  could  tear,  and  then  pulled  up  to  a  walk.  I  said 
to  myself  at  that  moment,  *  There  is  a  man  devoid  of  judg- 
ment.' " 

"  Ah,  ha !  "  cried  M.  Guillaume,  "  how  wise  I  was  to  have 
your  money  settled  on  yourself  with  such  a  queer  fellow  for 
a  husband !  " 

*  When  Augustine  was  so  imprudent  as  to  set  forth  her 
serious  grievances  against  her  husband,  the  two  old  people 
were  speechless  with  indignation.  But  the  word  ''  divorce  " 
was  erelong  spoken  by  Mme.  Guillaume.  At  the  sound  of 
the  word  divorce  the  apathetic  old  draper  seemed  to  wake 
up.  Prompted  by  his  love  for  his  daughter,  and  also  by 
the  excitement  which  the  proceedings  would  bring  into  his 
uneventful  life,  Father  Guillaume  took  up  the  matter.  He 
made  himself  the  leader  of  the  application  for  a  divorce, 
laid  down  the  lines  of  it,  almost  argued  the  case ;  he  offered 
to  be  at  all  the  charges,  to  see  the  lawyers,  the  pleaders, 
the  judges,  to  move  heaven  and  earth.  Mme.  de  Sommervieux 
was  frightened,  she  refused  her  father's  services,  said  she 
would  not  be  separated  from  her  husband  even  if  she  were 
ten  times  as  unhappy,  and  talked  no  more  about  her  sorrows. 


THE  CAT  AND  KACKET  4T 

After  being  overwhelmed  by  her  parents  with  all  the  little 
wordless  and  consoling  kindnesses  by  which  the  old  couple 
tried  in  vain  to  make  up  to  her  for  her  distress  of  heart, 
Augustine  went  away,  feeling  the  impossibility  of  making  a 
superior  mind  intelligible  to  weak  intellects.  She  had  learned 
that  a  wife  must  hide  from  everyone,  even  from  her  parents, 
woes  for  which  it  is  so  difficult  to  find  sympathy.  The  storms 
and  sufferings  of  the  upper  spheres  are  appreciated  only 
by  the  lofty  spirits  who  inhabit  there.  In  every  circumstanqe 
we  can  only  be  judged  by  our  equals. 

Thus  poor  Augustine  found  herself  thrown  back  on  the 
horror  of  her  meditations,  in  the  cold  atmosphere  of  her 
home.  Study  was  indifferent  to  her,  since  study  had  not 
brought  her  back  her  husband's  heart.  Initiated  into  the 
secret  of  these  souls  of  fire,  but  bereft  of  their  resources, 
she  was  compelled  to  share  their  sorrows  without  sharing 
their  pleasures.  She  was  disgusted  with  the  world,  which 
to  her  seemed  mean  and  small  as  compared  with  the  incidents 
of  passion.     In  short,  her  life  was  a  failure. 

One  evening  an  idea  flashed  upon  her  that  lighted  up  her 
dark  grief  like  a  beam  from  heaven.  Such  an  idea  could 
never  have  smiled  on  a  heart  less  pure,  less  virtuous  than 
hers.  She  determined  to  go  to  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano, 
not  to  ask  her  to  give  her  back  her  husband's  heart,  but  to 
learn  the  arts  by  which  it  had  been  captured;  to  engage 
the  interest  of  this  haughty  fine  lady  for  the  mother  of  her 
lover's  children;  to  appeal  to  her  and  make  her  the  instru- 
ment of  her  future  happiness,  since  she  was  the  cause  of  her 
present  wretchedness. 

So  one  day  Augustine,  timid  as  she  was,  but  armed  with 
supernatural  courage,  got  into  her  carriage  at  two  in  the 
afternoon  to  try  for  admittance  to  the  boudoir  of  the  famous 
coquette,  who  was  never  visible  till  that  hour.  Mme.  de 
Sommervieux  had  not  yet  seen  any  of  the  ancient  and  mag- 
nificent mansions  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  As  she 
made  her  way  through  the  stately  corridors,  the  handsome 
staircases,  the  vast  drawing-rooms — full  of  flowers,  though 
it  was  in  the  depth  of  winter,  and  decorated  with  the  taste 
peculiar  to  women  bom  to  opulence  or  to  the  elegant  habits 


48  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

of  the  aristocracy,  Augustine  felt  a  terrible  clutch  at  her 
heart;  she  coveted  the  secrets  of  an  elegance  of  which  she 
had  never  had  an  idea ;  she  breathed  an  air  of  grandeur  which 
explained  the  attraction  of  the  house  for  her  husband.  When 
she  reached  the  private  rooms  of  the  Duchesse  she  was  filled 
with  jealousy  and  a  sort  of  despair,  as  she  admired  the 
luxurious  arrangement  of  the  furniture,  the  draperies,  and 
the  hangings.  Here  disorder  was  a  grace,  here  luxury 
affected  a  certain  contempt  of  splendor.  The  fragrance 
that  floated  in  the  warm  air  flattered  the  sense  of  smell 
without  offending  it.  The  accessories  of  the  rooms  were 
in  harmony  with  a  view,  through  plate-glass  windows,  of 
the  lawns  in  a  garden  planted  with  evergreen  trees.  It  was 
all  bewitching,  and  the  art  of  it  was  not  perceptible.  The 
whole  spirit  of  the  mistress  of  these  rooms  pervaded  the 
drawing-room  where  Augustine  awaited  her.  She  tried  to 
divine  her  rival's  character  from  the  aspect  of  the  scattered 
objects ;  but  there  was  here  something  as  impenetrable  in 
the  disorder  as  in  the  symmetry,  and  to  the  simple-minded 
young  wife  all  was  a  sealed  letter.  All  that  she  could  dis- 
cern was  that,  as  a  woman,  the  Duchesse  was  a  superior 
person.     Then  a  painful  thought  came  over  her. 

"  Alas !  And  is  it  true,"  she  wondered,  "  that  a  simple 
and  loving  heart  is  not  all-sufficient  to  an  artist;  that  to 
balance  the  weight  of  these  powerful  souls  they  need  a  union 
with  feminine  souls  of  a  strength  equal  to  their  own.''  If  I 
had  been  brought  up  like  this  siren,  our  weapons  at  least 
might  have  been  equal  in  the  hour  of  struggle." 

"  But  I  am  not  at  home ! "  The  sharp,  harsh  words, 
though  spoken  in  an  undertone  in  the  adjoining  boudoir,  were 
heard  by  Augustine,  and  her  heart  beat  violently. 

"  The  lady  is  in  there,"  replied  the  maid. 

"  You  are  an  idiot !  Show  her  in,"  replied  the  Duchesse, 
whose  voice  was  sweeter,  and  had  assumed  the  dulcet  tones 
of  politeness.     She  evidently  now  meant  to  be  heard. 

Augustine  shyly  entered  the  room.  At  the  end  of  the 
dainty  boudoir  she  saw  the  Duchesse  lounging  luxuriously 
on  an  ottoman  covered  with  brown  velvet  and  placed  in  the 
center  of  a  sort  of  apse  outlined  by  soft  folds  of  white  muslin 


THE  CAT  AND  EACKET  49 

over  a  yellow  lining.  Ornaments  of  gilt  bronze,  arranged 
with  exquisite  taste,  enhanced  this  sort  of  dais,  under  which 
the  Duchesse  reclined  like  a  Greek  statue.  The  dark  hue 
of  the  velvet  gave  relief  to  every  fascinating  charm.  A  sub- 
dued light,  friendly  to  her  beauty,  fell  like  a  reflection  rather 
than  a  direct  illumination.  A  few  rare  flowers  raised  their 
perfumed  heads  from  costly  Sevres  vases.  At  the  moment 
when  this  picture  was  presented  to  Augustine's  astonished 
eyes,  she  was  approaching  so  noiselessly  that  she  caught  a 
glance  from  those  of  the  enchantress.  This  look  seemed  to 
say  to  someone  whom  Augustine  did  not  at  first  perceive, 
"  Stay ;  you  will  see  a  pretty  woman,  and  make  her  visit  less 
of  a  bore." 

On  seeing  Augustine,  the  Duchesse  rose  and  made  her  sit 
down  by  her. 

"  And  to  what  do  I  owe  the  pleasure  of  this  visit, 
madame?  "  she  said  with  a  most  gracious  smile. 

"  Why  all  this  falseness  ?  "  thought  Augustine,  replying 
only  with  a  bow. 

Her  silence  was  compulsory.  The  young  woman  saw  be- 
fore her  a  superfluous  witness  of  the  scene.  This  personage 
was,  of  all  the  colonels  in  the  army,  the  youngest,  the  most 
fashionable,  and  the  finest  man.  His  face,  full  of  life  and 
youth,  but  already  expressive,  was  further  enhanced  by  a 
small  mustache  twirled  up  into  points,  and  as  black  as  jet, 
by  a  full  Imperial,  by  whiskers  carefully  combed,  and  a  forest 
of  black  hair  in  some  disorder.  He  was  whisking  a  riding 
whip  with  an  air  of  ease  and  freedom  which  suited  his  self- 
satisfied  expression  and  the  elegance  of  his  dress ;  the  ribbons 
attached  to  his  buttonhole  were  carelessly  tied,  and  he  seemed 
to  pride  himself  much  more  on  his  smart  appearance  than 
on  his  courage.  Augustine  looked  at  the  Duchesse  de 
Carigllano,  and  Indicated  the  colonel  by  a  sidelong  glance. 
All  its  mute  appeal  was  understood. 

"  Good-by,  then,  M.  d'AIglemont,  we  shall  meet  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne." 

These  words  were  spoken  by  the  siren  as  though  they  were 
the  result  of  an  agreement  made  before  Augustine's  arrival, 
and  she  winged  them  with  a  threatening  look  that  the  officer 


50  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

deserved  perhaps  for  the  admiration  he  showed  in  gazing^ 
at  the  modest  flower,  which  contrasted  so  well  with  the 
haughty  Duchesse.  The  young  fop  bowed  in  silence,  turned 
on  the  heels  of  his  boots,  and  gracefully  quitted  the  boudoir. 
At  this  instant,  Augustine,  watching  her  rival,  whose  eyes 
seemed  to  follow  the  brilliant  officer,  detected  in  that  glance 
a  sentiment  of  which  the  transient  expression  is  known  to 
every  woman.  She  perceived  with  the  deepest  anguish  that 
her  visit  would  be  useless ;  this  lady,  full  of  artifice,  was  too 
greedy  of  homage  not  to  have  a  ruthless  heart. 

"  Madame,"  said  Augustine  in  a  broken  voice,  "  the  step 
I  am  about  to  take  will  seem  to  you  very  strange ;  but 
there  is  a  madness  of  despair  which  ought  to  excuse  an3thing. 
I  understand  only  too  well  why  Theodore  prefers  your  house 
to  any  other,  and  why  your  mind  has  so  much  power  over  his. 
Alas!  I  have  only  to  look  into  myself  to  find  more  than 
ample  reasons.  But  I  am  devoted  to  my  husband,  madame. 
Two  years  of  tears  have  not  eflPaced  his  image  from  my 
heart,  though  I  have  lost  him.  In  my  folly  I  dared  to  dream 
of  a  contest  with  you ;  and  I  have  come  to  you  to  ask  you 
by  what  means  I  may  triumph  over  yourself.  Oh,  nuulame," 
cried  the  young  wife,  ardently  seizing  the  hand  which  her 
rival  allowed  her  to  hold,  "  I  will  never  pray  to  God  for 
my  own  happiness  with  so  much  fervor  as  I  will  beseech 
Him  for  yours,  if  you  will  help  me  win  back  Sommervieux's 
regard — I  will  not  say  his  love.  I  have  no  hope  but  in  you. 
Ah!  tell  me  how  you  could  please  him,  and  make  him  forget 

the  first  days "     At  these  words  Augustine  broke  down, 

suffocated  with  sobs  she  could  not  suppress.  Ashamed  of 
her  weakness,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,  which 
she  bathed  with  tears. 

"  What  a  child  you  are,  my  dear  little  beauty !  "  said  the 
Duchesse,  carried  away  by  the  novelty  of  such  a  scene,  and 
touched,  in  spite  of  herself,  at  receiving  such  homage  from 
the  most  perfect  virtue  perhaps  in  Paris.  She  took  the 
young  wife's  handkerchief,  and  herself  wiped  the  tears  from 
her  eyes,  soothing  her  by  a  few  monosyllables  murmured  with 
gracious  compassion.  After  a  moment's  silence  the  Duchesse, 
grasping  poor  Augustine's  hands  in  both  her  own — hands 


THE  CAT  AND  EACKET  51 

that  had  a  rare  character  of  dignity  and  powerful  beauty — 
said  in  a  gentle  and  friendly  voice :  "  My  first  warning  is 
to  advise  you  not  to  weep  so  bitterly;  tears  are  disfiguring. 
We  must  learn  to  deal  firmly  with  the  sorrows  that  make 
us  ill,  for  love  does  not  linger  long  by  a  sickbed.  Melancholy, 
at  first,  no  doubt,  lends  a  certain  attractive  grace,  but  it 
ends  by  dragging  the  features  and  blighting  the  loveliest  face. 
And  besides,  our  tyrants  are  so  vain  as  to  insist  that  their 
slaves  should  be  always  cheerful." 

*'  But,  madame,  it  is  not  in  my  power  not  to  feel.  How 
is  it  possible,  without  suffering  a  thousand  deaths,  to  see 
the  face  which  once  beamed  with  love  and  gladness  turn  chill, 
colorless,  and  indifferent?     I  cannot  control  my  heart!  " 

"  So  much  the  worse,  sweet  child.  But  I  fancy  I  know 
all  your  story.  In  the  first  place,  if  your  husband  is  un- 
faithful to  you,  understand  clearly  that  I  am  not  his  accom- 
plice. If  I  was  anxious  to  have  him  in  my  drawing-room,  it 
was,  I  own,  out  of  vanity ;  he  was  famous,  and  he  went 
nowhere.  I  like  you  too  much  already  to  tell  you  all  the 
mad  things  he  has  done  for  my  sake.  I  will  only  reveal 
one,  because  it  may  perhaps  help  us  to  bring  him  back  to 
you,  and  to  punish  him  for  the  audacity  of  his  behavior  to 
me.  He  will  end  by  compromising  me.  I  know  the  world 
too  well,  my  dear,  to  abandon  myself  to  the  discretion  of 
a  too  superior  man.  You  should  know  that  one  may  allow 
them  to  court  one,  but  marry  them — that  is  a  mistake !  We 
women  ought  to  admire  men  of  genius,  and  delight  in  them 
as  a  spectacle,  but  as  to  living  with  them?  Never. — No,  no. 
It  is  like  wanting  to  find  pleasure  in  inspecting  the  machinery 
of  the  Opera  instead  of  sitting  in  a  box  to  enjoy  its  brilliant 
illusions.  But  this  misfortune  has  fallen  on  you,  my  poor 
child,  has  it  not?  Well,  then,  you  must  try  to  arm  yourself 
against  tyranny." 

"  Ah,  madame,  before  coming  in  here,  only  seeing  you  as 
I  came  in,  I  already  detected  some  arts  of  which  I  had  no 
suspicion." 

"  Well,  come  and  see  me  sometimes,  and  it  will  not  be  long 
before  you  have  mastered  the  knowledge  of  these  trifles, 
important,  too,  in  their  way.     Outward  things  are,  to  fools. 


52  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

half  of  life;  and  in  that  matter  more  than  one  clever  man 
is  a  fool,  in  spite  of  all  his  talent.  But  I  dare  wager  you 
never  could  refuse  your  Theodore  anything !  " 

"  How  refuse  anything,  madame,  if  one  loves  a  man  ?  " 

"  Poor  innocent,  I  could  adore  you  for  your  simplicity. 
You  should  know  that  the  mort  we  love  the  less  we  should 
allow  a  man,  above  all,  a  husband,  to  see  the  whole  extent 
of  our  passion.  The  one  who  loves  most  is  tyrannized  over, 
and,  which  is  worse,  is  sooner  or  later  neglected.  The  one 
who  wishes  to  rule  should " 

*'  What,  madame,  must  I  then  dissimulate,  calculate,  be- 
come false,  form  an  artificial  character,  and  live  in  it.''  How 
is  it  possible  to  live  in  such  a  way.''  Can  you "  she  hesi- 
tated; the  Duchesse  smiled. 

"  My  dear  child,"  the  great  lady  went  on  in  a  serious 
tone,  "  conjugal  happiness  has  in  all  times  been  a  specula- 
tion, a  business  demanding  particular  attention.  If  you 
persist  in  talking  passion  while  I  am  talking  marriage,  we 
shall  soon  cease  to  understand  each  other.  Listen  to  me," 
she  went  on,  assuming  a  confidential  tone.  "  I  have  been 
in  the  way  of  seeing  some  of  the  superior  men  of  our  day. 
Those  who  have  married  have  for  the  most  part  chosen 
quite  insignificant  wives.  Well,  those  wives  governed  them, 
as  the  Emperor  governs  us ;  and  if  they  were  not  loved,  they 
were  at  least  respected.  I  like  secrets — especially  those  which 
concern  women — well  enough  to  have  amused  myself  by  seek- 
ing the  clew  to  the  riddle.  Well,  my  sweet  child,  those 
worthy  women  had  the  gift  of  analyzing  their  husbands' 
nature ;  instead  of  taking  fright,  like  you,  at  their  superiority, 
they  very  acutely  noted  the  qualities  they  lacked,  and  either 
by  possessing  those  qualities,  or  by  feigning  to  possess  them, 
they  found  means  of  making  such  a  handsome  display  of 
them  in  their  husbands'  eyes  that  in  the  end  they  impressed 
them.  Also,  I  must  tell  you,  all  these  souls  which  appear 
so  lofty  have  just  a  speck  of  madness  in  them,  which  we 
ought  to  know  how  to  take  advantage  of.  By  firmly  re- 
solving to  have  the  upper  hand  and  never  deviating  from 
that  aim,  by  bringing  all  our  actions  to  bear  on  it,  all  our 
ideas,  our  cajolery,  we  subjugate  these  eminently  capricious 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  53 

natures,  which,  by  the  very  mutability  of  their  thoughts, 
lend  us  the  means  of  influencing  them." 

"  Good  Heavens !  "  cried  the  young  wife  in  dismay.  "  And 
this  is  life.     It  is  a  warfare " 

"In  which  we  must  always. threaten,"  said  the  Duchesse, 
laughing.  "  Our  power  is  wholly  factitious.  And  we  must 
never  allow  a  man  to  despise  us;  it  is  impossible  to  recover 
from  such  a  descent  but  by  odious  maneuvering.  Come,"  she 
added,  "  I  will  give  you  a  means  of  bringing  your  husband 
to  his  senses." 

She  rose  with  a  smile  to  guide  the  young  and  guileless 
apprentice  to  conjugal  arts  through  the  labyrinth  of  her 
palace.  They  came  to  a  back-staircase,  which  led  up  to  the 
reception  rooms.  As  Mme.  de  Carigliano  pressed  the  secret 
spring-lock  of  the  door  she  stopped,  looking  at  Augustine 
with  an  inimitable  gleam  of  shrewdness  and  grace.  "  The 
Due  de  Carigliano  adores  me,"  said  she.  "  Well,  he  dare 
not  enter  by  this  door  without  my  leave.  And  he  is  a  man 
in  the  habit  of  commanding  thousands  of  soldiers.  He  knows 
how  to  face  a  battery,  but  before  me — he  is  afraid !  " 

Augustine  sighed.  They  entered  a  sumptuous  gallery, 
where  the  painter's  wife  was  led  by  the  Duchesse  up  to  the 
portrait  painted  by  Theodore  of  Mile.  Guillaume.  On  seeing 
it,  Augustine  uttered  a  cry. 

"  I  knew  it  was  no  longer  in  my  house,"  she  said,  "  but — 
here !" 

"  My  dear  child,  I  asked  for  it  merely  to  see  what  pitch 
of  idiocy  a  man  of  genius  may  attain  to.  Sooner  or  later 
I  should  have  returned  it  to  you,  for  I  never  expected  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  original  here  face  to  face  with  the 
copy.  While  we  finish  our  conversation  I  will  have  it  carried 
down  to  your  carriage.  And  if,  armed  with  such  a  talisman, 
you  are  not  your  husband's  mistress  for  a  hundred  years, 
you  are  not  a  woman,  and  you  deserve  your  fate." 

Augustine  kissed  the  Duchesse's  hand,  and  the  lady  clasped 
her  to  her  heart,  with  all  the  more  tenderness  because  she 
would  forget  her  by  the  morrow.  This  scene  might  perhaps 
have  destroyed  forever  the  candor  and  purity  of  a  less 
virtuous  woman  than  Augustine,  for  the  astute  politics  of 


54  AT  THE  SIGN  OF 

the  higher  social  spheres  were  no  more  consonant  to  Augus- 
tine than  the  narrow  reasoning  of  Joseph  Lebas,  or  Mrae. 
Guillaume's  vapid  morality.  Strange  are  the  results  of  the 
false  positions  into  which  we  may  be  brought  by  the  slightest 
mistake  in  the  conduct  of  life !  Augustine  was  like  an  Alpine 
cowherd  surprised  by  an  avalanche;  if  he  hesitates,  if  he 
listens  to  the  shouts  of  his  comrades,  he  is  almost  certainly 
lost.     In  such  a  crisis  the  heart  steels  itself  or  breaks. 

Mme.  de  Sommervieux  returned  home  a  prey  to  such  agita- 
tion as  it  is  difficult  to  describe.  Her  conversation  with  the 
Duchesse  de  Carigliano  had  roused  in  her  mind  a  crowd  of 
contradictory  thoughts.  Like  the  sheep  in  the  fable,  full  of 
courage  in  the  wolf's  absence,  she  preached  to  herself,  and 
laid  down  admirable  plans  of  conduct ;  she  devised  a  thousand 
coquettish  stratagems ;  she  even  talked  to  her  husband,  find- 
ing, away  from  him,  all  the  springs  of  true  eloquence  which 
never  desert  a  woman ;  then,  as  she  pictured  to  herself  Theo- 
dore's clear  and  steadfast  gaze,  she  began  to  quake.  When 
she  asked  whether  monsieur  were  at  home  her  voice  shook. 
On  learning  that  he  would  not  be  in  to  dinner,  she  felt  an 
unaccountable  thrill  of  joy.  Like  a  criminal  who  has  ap- 
pealed against  sentence  of  death,  a  respite,  however  short, 
seemed  to  her  a  lifetime.  She  placed  the  portrait  in  her 
room,  and  waited  for  her  husband  in  all  the  agonies  of  hope. 
That  this  venture  must  decide  her  future  life,  she  felt  too 
keenly  not  to  shiver  at  every  sound,  even  the  low  ticking  of 
the  clock,  which  seemed  to  aggravate  her  terrors  by  doling 
them  out  to  her.  She  tried  to  cheat  time  by  various  devices. 
The  idea  struck  her  of  dressing  in  a  way  which  would  make 
her  exactly  like  the  portrait.  Then,  knowing  her  husband's 
restless  temper,  she  had  her  room  lighted  up  with  unusual 
brightness,  feeling  sure  that  when  he  came  in  curiosity  would 
bring  him  there  at  once.  Midnight  had  struck  when,  at 
the  call  of  the  groom,  the  street  gate  was  opened,  and  the 
artist's  carriage  rumbled  in  over  the  stones  of  the  silent 
courtyard. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  illumination  ?  "  asked  Theo- 
dore in  glad  tones,  as  he  came  into  her  room. 

Augustine    skillfully    seized   the    auspicious    moment;   she 


THE  CAT  AND  EACKET  56 

threw  herself  into  her  husband's  arms,  and  pointed  to  the  por- 
trait. The  artist  stood  rigid  as  a  rock,  and  his  eyes  turned 
alternately  on  Augustine,  on  the  accusing  dress.  The 
frightened  wife,  half-dead,  as  she  watched  her  husband's 
changeful  brow — that  terrible  brow — saw  the  expressive  fur- 
rows gathering  like  clouds ;  then  she  felt  her  blood  curdling 
in  her  veins  when,  with  a  glaring  look,  and  in  a  deep  hollow 
voice,  he  began  to  question  her — 

"  Where  did  you  find  that  picture  ?  " 

"  The  Duchesse  de  Carigliano  returned  it  to  me." 

"  You  asked  her  for  it  .'*  " 

"  I  did  not  know  that  she  had  it." 

The  gentleness,  or  rather  the  exquisite  sweetness  of  this 
angel's  voice,  might  have  touched  a  cannibal,  but  not  an 
artist  in  the  clutches  of  wounded  vanity. 

"  It  is  worthy  of  her ! "  exclaimed  the  painter  in  a  voice 
of  thunder.  "  I  will  be  revenged !  "  he  cried,  striding  up 
and  down  the  room.  "  She  shall  die  of  shame ;  I  will  paint 
her!  Yes,  I  will  paint  her  as  Messalina  stealing  out  at  night 
from  the  palace  of  Claudius." 

"  Theodore !  "  said  a  faint  voice. 

"  I  will  kill  her." 

«  My  dear " 

"  She  is  in  love  with  that  little  cavalry  colonel,  because 
he  rides  well " 

"  Theodore ! " 

"  Let  me  be !  "  said  the  painter  in  a  tone  almost  like  a  roar. 

It  would  be  odious  to  describe  the  whole  scene.  In  the  end 
the  frenzy  of  passion  prompted  the  artist  to  acts  and  words 
which  any  woman  not  so  young  as  Augustine  would  have 
ascribed  to  madness. 

At  eight  o'clock  next  morning  Mme.  Guillaume,  surprising 
her  daughter,  found  her  pale,  with  red  eyes,  her  hair  in 
disorder,  holding  a  handkerchief  soaked  with  tears,  while 
she  gazed  at  the  floor  strewn  with  the  torn  fragments  of 
a  dress  and  the  broken  pieces  of  a  large  gilt  picture-frame. 
Augustine,  almost  senseless  with  grief,  pointed  to  the  wreck 
with  a  gesture  of  deep  despair. 

"  I  don't  know  that  the  loss  is  very  great ! "  cried  the  old 


56      AT  SIGN  OF  THE  CAT  AND  RACKET 

mistress  of  the  Cat  and  Racket.  "  It  was  like  you,  no  doubt ; 
but  I  am  told  that  there  is  a  man  on  the  boulevard  who 
paints  lovely  portraits  for  fifty  crowns." 

"  Oh,  mother !  " 

"  Poor  child,  you  are  quite  right,"  replied  Mme.  Guil- 
laume,  who  misinterpreted  the  expression  of  her  daughter's 
glance  at  her.  "  True,  my  child,  no  one  ever  can  love  you 
as  fondly  as  a  mother.  My  darling,  I  guess  it  all;  but 
confide  your  sorrows  to  me,  and  I  will  comfort  you.  Did  I 
not  tell  you  long  ago  that  the  man  was  mad !  Your  maid 
has  told  me  pretty  stories.  Why,  he  must  be  a  perfect 
monster !  " 

Augustine  laid  a  finger  on  her  white  lips,  as  if  to  implore 
a  moment's  silence.  During  this  dreadful  night  misery  had 
led  her  to  that  patient  resignation  which  in  mothers  and 
loving  wives  transcends  in  its  effects  all  human  energy,  and 
perhaps  reveals  in  the  heart  of  women  the  existence  of  certain 
chords  which  God  has  withheld  from  men. 

An  inscription  engraved  on  a  broken  column  in  the  ceme- 
tery at  Montmartre  states  that  Mme.  de  Sommervieux  died 
at  the  age  of  twenty-seven.  In  the  simple  words  of  this 
epitaph  one  of  the  timid  creature's  friends  can  read  the  last 
scene  of  a  tragedy.  Every  year,  on  the  second  of  November, 
the  solemn  day  of  the  dead,  he  never  passes  this  youthful 
monument  without  wondering  whether  it  does  not  need  a 
stronger  woman  than  Augustine  to  endure  the  violent  em- 
brace of  genius.'' 

"  The  humble  and  modest  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  valley,'* 
he  reflects,  "  perish  perhaps  when  they  are  transplanted  too 
near  the  skies,  to  the  region  where  storms  gather  and  the 
sun  is  scorching." 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  900  230    4 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 


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